surveying things from above eye level
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The soldiers marched us a long way and didn't explain why we were selected and no one knew where we were going. I knew about soldiers. For some reason I wasn't fearful about being selected by the soldiers. I figured if the soldiers meant us harm we would know immediately by how they treated us. It seemed to me that we were selected more or less at random and the soldiers were following orders and taking us some where for someone important. Since we were marching toward Ur I figured it might concern the King's business because the soldiers were obviously an elite unit and well financed in their mission.
I had never surveyed things from above eye level. It is very flat in the village I lived my entire live in
The soldiers did not follow us up onto the Ziggarat. It is not permitted. Why myself and a few other common farmers and labors are permitted on the Ziggarat with the Priest's has not been explained to us. Like most of the others I have decided to make the best of my situation. We are well fed, the Priests are gracious and polite and the women that carry the food for us to eat are beautiful. I am a simple man; soon I know there will be a bill I must pay for being on the Ziggarat. Why worry now. We are guests of the Priest's but we are not allowed to leave.
The soldiers who brought us here wait below. Sometimes I watch them from one of the lower terraces for clues to my fate. They just act like typical soldiers, fighting and gambling in their time off, flirting with the girls bringing us the food when the officers aren't watching, and sleeping when not on duty.
It's odd to see the flat countryside from two hundred feet above. I have many strange dreams because of the different way of seeing things.
One of the other farmers who came here to be a guests of these Priests believes that a storm is coming in a day or two. He knows about weather from being a farmer. He thinks the Priest's want us to be on the top of the Ziggarat when a lightening storm strikes for a scientific experiment.
No matter the weather to me. I will just enjoy my good fortune. I am well fed by the Priests, I walk around and survey the world from two hundred feet above, I am protected by soldiers at government expense, beautiful girl's carry my food to me and I do not have to tip them.
Let the Devil worry about tomorrow's weather and lightening strikes, today I enjoy my life. I will try to bloom where I am planted.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
the science of invisibility
the science of invisibility
fiction
edward w pritchard
We all have our secret fears and one of mine is being visible to a woman. I mean a woman, like a dancer at the Folies Bergere or more mundanely one of the girls at the bottoms up strip club, sports bar, and fitness center for men a few miles from my house. I dislike it immensely when a girl I am watching perform an erotic dance can see me watching her.
Now I read on yahoo that scientists have come up with a cloaking device to bend light waves to make an object appear invisible. It's high time that scientists began to attack some of the important problems that plague us in everyday life. Although I am not a celebrity I dislike to be ogled.
No I don't think I am paranoid. It has been explained to me that an exotic dancer is too busy with her act and lost in her own thoughts to notice me at a club where she works. Still I feel common and cheap to think of her watching me in such a degrading setting as a strip club.
The Folies Bergere is better if I get to France. I seldom stare into the girl's eyes at all. The room is dark and the audience dresses in suits and fine clothes and the atmosphere is sophisticated and properly private with a titillation of expectation.
I for one am a great believer in the ability of Science to help bring about progress in American society. I applaud Scientist's achievements in making my life more enjoyable.
fiction
edward w pritchard
We all have our secret fears and one of mine is being visible to a woman. I mean a woman, like a dancer at the Folies Bergere or more mundanely one of the girls at the bottoms up strip club, sports bar, and fitness center for men a few miles from my house. I dislike it immensely when a girl I am watching perform an erotic dance can see me watching her.
Now I read on yahoo that scientists have come up with a cloaking device to bend light waves to make an object appear invisible. It's high time that scientists began to attack some of the important problems that plague us in everyday life. Although I am not a celebrity I dislike to be ogled.
No I don't think I am paranoid. It has been explained to me that an exotic dancer is too busy with her act and lost in her own thoughts to notice me at a club where she works. Still I feel common and cheap to think of her watching me in such a degrading setting as a strip club.
The Folies Bergere is better if I get to France. I seldom stare into the girl's eyes at all. The room is dark and the audience dresses in suits and fine clothes and the atmosphere is sophisticated and properly private with a titillation of expectation.
I for one am a great believer in the ability of Science to help bring about progress in American society. I applaud Scientist's achievements in making my life more enjoyable.
Janet Yellen, stern lady of finance
Janet Yellen, stern lady of finance
fiction
edward w Pritchard
By May 2014 inflation will be flying and Janet Yellen a nice girl from Brooklyn will have to change her stripes and become the stern lady of finance for America. Some-one has to do it and if she is confirmed by the Senate as head of the Federal Reserve next week the job will fall to her.
Austerity and sacrifice will become the order of the day. No more buying twenty dollars of lottery tickets each morning for senior citizens, no $95.00 Kobe beef hamburgers for New Yorkers, and no more Hawaiian vacations for the first family. I'll have to stop riding from Goodwill store to Goodwill store all day looking for bargains on clothes and books.
First will be a few secret meetings with British bankers, meetings without anyone from Solomon brothers invited. Then one day in early May 2014 the stock market will stop soaring and plunge a thousand points and a few days later Ms. Yellen will announce the new austerity plan. She will mean it and we will all know she means business. America will be put on a fiscal diet.
We still have four more months of high times. Spend twenty dollars a day on lottery tickets, drop one hundred eighty dollars a ticket to watch LeBron James play and offer baseball player Chin Soo Choo another 150 million dollar contract.
Austerity and sacrifice is coming soon to America. One day in May 2014 it will happen, the Fed will tighten for real and mean to continue and America will go on a strict fiscal diet until the end of President Obama's term.
Meantime buy speculative Chinese ADR's and stocks like VISN and watch the price of a barrel of oil soar forty dollars a barrel. Listen in a few hours, later today, to a commentator on CNN talk about 20,000 Dow this year.
Grumpy Aunt Janet will spoil the party soon. Act accordingly.
fiction
edward w Pritchard
By May 2014 inflation will be flying and Janet Yellen a nice girl from Brooklyn will have to change her stripes and become the stern lady of finance for America. Some-one has to do it and if she is confirmed by the Senate as head of the Federal Reserve next week the job will fall to her.
Austerity and sacrifice will become the order of the day. No more buying twenty dollars of lottery tickets each morning for senior citizens, no $95.00 Kobe beef hamburgers for New Yorkers, and no more Hawaiian vacations for the first family. I'll have to stop riding from Goodwill store to Goodwill store all day looking for bargains on clothes and books.
First will be a few secret meetings with British bankers, meetings without anyone from Solomon brothers invited. Then one day in early May 2014 the stock market will stop soaring and plunge a thousand points and a few days later Ms. Yellen will announce the new austerity plan. She will mean it and we will all know she means business. America will be put on a fiscal diet.
We still have four more months of high times. Spend twenty dollars a day on lottery tickets, drop one hundred eighty dollars a ticket to watch LeBron James play and offer baseball player Chin Soo Choo another 150 million dollar contract.
Austerity and sacrifice is coming soon to America. One day in May 2014 it will happen, the Fed will tighten for real and mean to continue and America will go on a strict fiscal diet until the end of President Obama's term.
Meantime buy speculative Chinese ADR's and stocks like VISN and watch the price of a barrel of oil soar forty dollars a barrel. Listen in a few hours, later today, to a commentator on CNN talk about 20,000 Dow this year.
Grumpy Aunt Janet will spoil the party soon. Act accordingly.
a woman's place is in the kitchen
a woman's place is in the kitchen
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
repost/ edit
Happy New Years readers, author is thinking of a competent woman in a red apron working in clean kitchen this morning.
start/ reposted
Sunday, May 2, 2010
a man about the kitchen
Rerun of a previous story
Feminism has come and is now passe. Diversity has moved on to other more challenging battles.
A man in the kitchen is still a no no. Women want the right to write and tell their own story, earn their own living and pursue their own sins; but only the most enlightened will allow a man in the kitchen. A man in the kitchen is subject to criticism, ridicule, and anger.
The French Chef excepted a man in the kitchen is suspect. Relegated to chili or exiled to the yard to a heavy meat concentration of barbecue. The more modern and innovative vegan recipes and haute cuisines are considered beyond a man.
Woman rule the kitchen with an iron hand. It's not about food it's about power. A man can watch the kids, sit at endless soccer games and attend school conferences but not be in the sacred kitchen. That's the woman's domain. Choosing words carefully, drawn sword like, a woman attempts to define the situation and empower herself and emasculate the bumbling male. Man may not enter the hearth, it is un-natural.
A man in the kitchen is considered shrill. A bitch of sorts. Hysterical. Ludicrous for wanting to enter a woman's world. The matriarchal world defines the limits of a man's venturing into her kitchen. Woman forces man to conform to society's expectations and follow the same tired script and stay out of the kitchen.
A man is not entitled to a place for his tools and things in the kitchen. To suggest otherwise is heresy. Man is considered too inept to even put things in the dishwasher. Popular culture enforces these tired stereotypes.
There are too many boundaries on men when it comes to entering the kitchen. Male friendship or comradely in the kitchen is imbibed with innuendo. Man must keep his place, the garage, the study, or worse, the barbecue pit or tail gate party.
When a man does enter the kitchen successfully such as early 19th century cooks they are labeled freaks, interlopers, shrews. Women control the media concerning who may be in the kitchen and their stories and histories ridicule, mock, condemn, or the ultimate in the anti-male/kitchen stereotypes; men are ignored.
Several men of recent history, the last 149 years have boldly ventured into the kitchen. They made their own life, cooked for themselves, wrote about it in a room of their own, and even made a living from being in the kitchen. Ignoring the iron willed women who condemn their efforts for equal opportunity in the kitchen and outside the home these pacemakers are an inspiration to us all. Not wishing to overturn they cook and fry, and they merely cry out and wish to be heard. To have the food smelled and tasted and to be no longer banned from the kitchen the last battleground in the war between the sexes is their modest desire. Equal opportunity in the kitchen is a war fought by men so they may define who they are and make their rules; and then write and preach about it so other men may follow their path.
Men let's get angry, unite, in brotherhood, the time is ripe- the kitchen awaits- boldly venture forth, sans apron, elbows held high, clutching our sacred light beer, meet us in the kitchen, take control of your destiny.
end
Posted by edward pritchard at 4:27 PM Labels: feminism
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
repost/ edit
Happy New Years readers, author is thinking of a competent woman in a red apron working in clean kitchen this morning.
start/ reposted
Sunday, May 2, 2010
a man about the kitchen
Rerun of a previous story
Feminism has come and is now passe. Diversity has moved on to other more challenging battles.
A man in the kitchen is still a no no. Women want the right to write and tell their own story, earn their own living and pursue their own sins; but only the most enlightened will allow a man in the kitchen. A man in the kitchen is subject to criticism, ridicule, and anger.
The French Chef excepted a man in the kitchen is suspect. Relegated to chili or exiled to the yard to a heavy meat concentration of barbecue. The more modern and innovative vegan recipes and haute cuisines are considered beyond a man.
Woman rule the kitchen with an iron hand. It's not about food it's about power. A man can watch the kids, sit at endless soccer games and attend school conferences but not be in the sacred kitchen. That's the woman's domain. Choosing words carefully, drawn sword like, a woman attempts to define the situation and empower herself and emasculate the bumbling male. Man may not enter the hearth, it is un-natural.
A man in the kitchen is considered shrill. A bitch of sorts. Hysterical. Ludicrous for wanting to enter a woman's world. The matriarchal world defines the limits of a man's venturing into her kitchen. Woman forces man to conform to society's expectations and follow the same tired script and stay out of the kitchen.
A man is not entitled to a place for his tools and things in the kitchen. To suggest otherwise is heresy. Man is considered too inept to even put things in the dishwasher. Popular culture enforces these tired stereotypes.
There are too many boundaries on men when it comes to entering the kitchen. Male friendship or comradely in the kitchen is imbibed with innuendo. Man must keep his place, the garage, the study, or worse, the barbecue pit or tail gate party.
When a man does enter the kitchen successfully such as early 19th century cooks they are labeled freaks, interlopers, shrews. Women control the media concerning who may be in the kitchen and their stories and histories ridicule, mock, condemn, or the ultimate in the anti-male/kitchen stereotypes; men are ignored.
Several men of recent history, the last 149 years have boldly ventured into the kitchen. They made their own life, cooked for themselves, wrote about it in a room of their own, and even made a living from being in the kitchen. Ignoring the iron willed women who condemn their efforts for equal opportunity in the kitchen and outside the home these pacemakers are an inspiration to us all. Not wishing to overturn they cook and fry, and they merely cry out and wish to be heard. To have the food smelled and tasted and to be no longer banned from the kitchen the last battleground in the war between the sexes is their modest desire. Equal opportunity in the kitchen is a war fought by men so they may define who they are and make their rules; and then write and preach about it so other men may follow their path.
Men let's get angry, unite, in brotherhood, the time is ripe- the kitchen awaits- boldly venture forth, sans apron, elbows held high, clutching our sacred light beer, meet us in the kitchen, take control of your destiny.
end
Posted by edward pritchard at 4:27 PM Labels: feminism
another love poem
another love poem
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Sleeping girl twirl your net upon me.
Cast me from the murky ocean,
flop me into the bottom of your rocking boat,
thud me over the head with a weighted club,
skewer me on a sharpened stick,
roast me over throbbing coals
dash me with salt and lemon,
taste my crisped scented passion,
I wish to have another love affair.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Sleeping girl twirl your net upon me.
Cast me from the murky ocean,
flop me into the bottom of your rocking boat,
thud me over the head with a weighted club,
skewer me on a sharpened stick,
roast me over throbbing coals
dash me with salt and lemon,
taste my crisped scented passion,
I wish to have another love affair.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
piano blues as taught in the oiseau old folks home
piano blues as taught in the oiseau old folks home
fiction
edward w Pritchard
That old man will be upset that I am late. He sits in a rocker at the nursing home and watches episode after rerun of wheel of fortune all day, getting up only for lunch and dinner but he will be upset with me for being be late to our piano lesson. He will complain that Vanna White isn't on the show enough anymore and he will tell me about the squeak his brown rocking chair has developed, but mostly he will tell me over and over how I am holding him up and keeping him waiting lately.
The old man, my teacher, is Charlie Westfall. He use to be a small time blues singing and boogie woogie man down in Texas and Oklahoma. He has throat cancer now from smoking and his left hand is bad from a stroke but Can He Play. He doesn't read music.
Charlie complains that the piano is a piece of crap. He played on a Steinway once in a duet with Albert Ammons. He relents a little about criticizing me when I give him a carton of Marlboro and a bottle of gin. Twenty five bucks in quarters and ones will be due at the end of our half hour lesson.
I studied at Julliard but I cannot seem to master this boogie beat. He slaps my wrist with his black good hand. He demonstrates, I think I blush. Some of the other folks from the nursing hallways always come in when Charlie plays. It's electric when Charlie plays. He makes this old piano sound like the souls of a hundred men.
I wheel Charlie in his squeaking wheel chair down to dinner. He has been nipping at the gin I brought in and he sings an old song to one of the women hashing out the food who is about two hundred fifty pounds. Charlie teases at her. I try to stay to eat with Charlie when I can out of respect.
Charlie notices the powder burns on my left hand. When I shot councilman Wilson earlier he knocked at the gun when I killed him. My left hand got burned and singed in the scuffle. That's why I was late for my piano lesson today. Charlie knows about guns and shootings. When I leave the nursing home about dark Charlie gives me heck for being careless. He doesn't just mean for not practicing piano enough or stumbling around with my boogie progressions. He knows I am a for hire hit man. How he found out I don't know but that old guy knows things.
As I walk down the hall leaving Charlie's room he yells at me in a sing song crackling voice, "your supposed to wear gloves when you work suburban cowboy, to protect your hands for playing piano." I smile. That old blues man knows things.
fiction
edward w Pritchard
That old man will be upset that I am late. He sits in a rocker at the nursing home and watches episode after rerun of wheel of fortune all day, getting up only for lunch and dinner but he will be upset with me for being be late to our piano lesson. He will complain that Vanna White isn't on the show enough anymore and he will tell me about the squeak his brown rocking chair has developed, but mostly he will tell me over and over how I am holding him up and keeping him waiting lately.
The old man, my teacher, is Charlie Westfall. He use to be a small time blues singing and boogie woogie man down in Texas and Oklahoma. He has throat cancer now from smoking and his left hand is bad from a stroke but Can He Play. He doesn't read music.
Charlie complains that the piano is a piece of crap. He played on a Steinway once in a duet with Albert Ammons. He relents a little about criticizing me when I give him a carton of Marlboro and a bottle of gin. Twenty five bucks in quarters and ones will be due at the end of our half hour lesson.
I studied at Julliard but I cannot seem to master this boogie beat. He slaps my wrist with his black good hand. He demonstrates, I think I blush. Some of the other folks from the nursing hallways always come in when Charlie plays. It's electric when Charlie plays. He makes this old piano sound like the souls of a hundred men.
I wheel Charlie in his squeaking wheel chair down to dinner. He has been nipping at the gin I brought in and he sings an old song to one of the women hashing out the food who is about two hundred fifty pounds. Charlie teases at her. I try to stay to eat with Charlie when I can out of respect.
Charlie notices the powder burns on my left hand. When I shot councilman Wilson earlier he knocked at the gun when I killed him. My left hand got burned and singed in the scuffle. That's why I was late for my piano lesson today. Charlie knows about guns and shootings. When I leave the nursing home about dark Charlie gives me heck for being careless. He doesn't just mean for not practicing piano enough or stumbling around with my boogie progressions. He knows I am a for hire hit man. How he found out I don't know but that old guy knows things.
As I walk down the hall leaving Charlie's room he yells at me in a sing song crackling voice, "your supposed to wear gloves when you work suburban cowboy, to protect your hands for playing piano." I smile. That old blues man knows things.
Ruddmann on the case
Ruddmann on the case
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Life isn't what it used to be. I hate it when a woman drives a police car.
She isn't my partner these days, she's my supervisor. Senior Detective Odilia Ruddmann heiress. In protest I stared at her legs when we drove North hill beat. She got the Mayor, also a woman, to formally reprimand me for sexism. I have to sit in the back seat for thirty days and Odilia gets to drive. These punks in the project they notice such things; they left an aluminum fold up walker, the kind old people use to move about in a nursing home, leaning against the passenger door of our police car while we were inside 207B Treetop manner busting Tommy King.
Odelia uses Google maps to find her way around the city and she texts the other officers for advice when we are chasing a suspect. Odilia eats spinach salad for lunch and we wait in line at Starbucks for frappuccino every morning. When we are on stakeout she won't talk, she reads Anne Rynd " Fountainhead". When she arrested Billy Timens Odelia and Billy talked about objectivism in the hall of the courthouse while we waited for the jury to convict him of theft and breaking and entering. She won't just sit in the cruiser either. Every thirty minutes Odelia takes five minutes to stretch and meditate. Sometimes I think she doesn't eat at all, salads excluded; Officer Ruddmann likes to have lunch at 3PM or later and if we have late stakeout I have to pick her up at the fitness center.
When we do finally go to lunch or dinner, after Odelia has quietly told me I shouldn't eat so much red meat and salt she always offers to pay. Once I made the mistake of telling her what it's like to pay alimony to two ex wives. Her family is very rich. She doesn't need to work. What does she know about life; she has a BA in criminal justice, an MA in psychology and is working on a PHD in quantitative finance.
Two Thursday's ago I drove all shift. Odelia's boyfriend was caught with some bimbo school teacher. Odelia sat in the passenger seat and sniffled a lot.
Sometimes when she does want to talk when we drive around Odelia and I will argue about gun control, decriminalizing drug use, or if America is a welfare states which causes the excessive amount of government deficit. We can never agree on anything. She thinks Americans are too materialistic. What does she know. Poor little rich heiress.
Speaking of guns, I have taken to carrying a shotgun on patrol. I have to look out now for my new boss Odelia Ruddmann when she is on the case. I make sure she wears her vest during drug arrests and I try to keep ahead of her when we bust down a door or race up three flights of stairs.
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Life isn't what it used to be. I hate it when a woman drives a police car.
She isn't my partner these days, she's my supervisor. Senior Detective Odilia Ruddmann heiress. In protest I stared at her legs when we drove North hill beat. She got the Mayor, also a woman, to formally reprimand me for sexism. I have to sit in the back seat for thirty days and Odilia gets to drive. These punks in the project they notice such things; they left an aluminum fold up walker, the kind old people use to move about in a nursing home, leaning against the passenger door of our police car while we were inside 207B Treetop manner busting Tommy King.
Odelia uses Google maps to find her way around the city and she texts the other officers for advice when we are chasing a suspect. Odilia eats spinach salad for lunch and we wait in line at Starbucks for frappuccino every morning. When we are on stakeout she won't talk, she reads Anne Rynd " Fountainhead". When she arrested Billy Timens Odelia and Billy talked about objectivism in the hall of the courthouse while we waited for the jury to convict him of theft and breaking and entering. She won't just sit in the cruiser either. Every thirty minutes Odelia takes five minutes to stretch and meditate. Sometimes I think she doesn't eat at all, salads excluded; Officer Ruddmann likes to have lunch at 3PM or later and if we have late stakeout I have to pick her up at the fitness center.
When we do finally go to lunch or dinner, after Odelia has quietly told me I shouldn't eat so much red meat and salt she always offers to pay. Once I made the mistake of telling her what it's like to pay alimony to two ex wives. Her family is very rich. She doesn't need to work. What does she know about life; she has a BA in criminal justice, an MA in psychology and is working on a PHD in quantitative finance.
Two Thursday's ago I drove all shift. Odelia's boyfriend was caught with some bimbo school teacher. Odelia sat in the passenger seat and sniffled a lot.
Sometimes when she does want to talk when we drive around Odelia and I will argue about gun control, decriminalizing drug use, or if America is a welfare states which causes the excessive amount of government deficit. We can never agree on anything. She thinks Americans are too materialistic. What does she know. Poor little rich heiress.
Speaking of guns, I have taken to carrying a shotgun on patrol. I have to look out now for my new boss Odelia Ruddmann when she is on the case. I make sure she wears her vest during drug arrests and I try to keep ahead of her when we bust down a door or race up three flights of stairs.
Friday, December 27, 2013
David Stockman and John the Baptist
David Stockman and John the Baptist
fiction
edward w pritchard
a polemic, with no attempt to write a balanced article by this author
start;
Listen, who knows the time of Day?
David Stockman is confused, he has misjudged some of the pertinent facts, but he knows that something earth shaking will effect America. David Stockman the former Reagan administration Budget director expects apocalypse for the American economy. David Stockman has a messianic burning desire to tell everyone what is coming to America's way of life but he doesn't exactly know the details of what he feels will happen very soon.
David Stockman wrote two books. The first book " The triumph of politics,.. etc" was an indictment of the Reagan Administration's economic policies. About that time in the 1980's Stockman said of his tenure as Budget director, " none of us really understand what is going on with all these numbers. " Stockman was referring to trickle down and/or supply side economics initiated in the Reagan administration which began the exponential growth in the budget deficit caused by decreased taxes [ lower tax rates according to supply side theory, and/or trickle down economics will increase productive investment by the wealthy and magically increase taxes,{ sic sometimes}] and increased government spending [ which will trickle down and help the poor].
A career in business on Wall Street after leaving politics followed for Stockman. Jumping into the belly of the economic beast in America Stockman worked at Solomon Brothers [naturally] and at his own hedge fund in Greenwich Conn [where else]. His record was checkered as an investment guru. Like most theorist big picture economic geniuses " free markets" gave him no quarter. In 2007 the Securities and Exchange commission alleged fraud against Stockman and firm for perpetrating fraud against stockholders of a Detroit based auto parts supplier that went bankrupt, but in 2010 the US attorney decided not to pursue prosecution further because a settlement was planned by the parties involved.
Stockman's latest book is "The Great Deformation; the Corruption of Capitalism in America". The book is a timely and important book but has many errors in it. Promoting the book, Stockman has written in the New York Times and toured America lecturing and has been accused by most of ranting and being perpetually cranky. The message is that we have been fiscally irresponsible, deficits will swamp America soon and America is now morally, fiscally and ethically bankrupt.
John the Baptist the biblical profit preached that the Messiah would come soon to Judge the Romans and the corrupt Jewish administration strangling the Jewish people. John was beheaded by King Herod.
David Stockman was a congressman from Michigan in the 1970's and once studied divinity at Harvard in Graduate school.
John the Baptist baptized sinners with water and told them they could be forgiven of their sins by one who would Baptize in blood.
David Stockman knows not what or who is coming forth to Judge fiscally irresponsible morally bankrupt America. David Stockman studied divinity at Harvard.
Listen, who knows the time of Day?
David Stockman is confused, he has mis-judged some of the pertinent facts, but he knows that something earth shaking will effect America. David Stockman the former Reagan administration Budget director expects apocalypse for the American economy. David Stockman has a messianic burning desire to tell everyone what is coming to America's way of life but he doesn't exactly know the details of what he feels will happen very soon.
Listen, Who knows the time of day?
fiction
edward w pritchard
a polemic, with no attempt to write a balanced article by this author
start;
Listen, who knows the time of Day?
David Stockman is confused, he has misjudged some of the pertinent facts, but he knows that something earth shaking will effect America. David Stockman the former Reagan administration Budget director expects apocalypse for the American economy. David Stockman has a messianic burning desire to tell everyone what is coming to America's way of life but he doesn't exactly know the details of what he feels will happen very soon.
David Stockman wrote two books. The first book " The triumph of politics,.. etc" was an indictment of the Reagan Administration's economic policies. About that time in the 1980's Stockman said of his tenure as Budget director, " none of us really understand what is going on with all these numbers. " Stockman was referring to trickle down and/or supply side economics initiated in the Reagan administration which began the exponential growth in the budget deficit caused by decreased taxes [ lower tax rates according to supply side theory, and/or trickle down economics will increase productive investment by the wealthy and magically increase taxes,{ sic sometimes}] and increased government spending [ which will trickle down and help the poor].
A career in business on Wall Street after leaving politics followed for Stockman. Jumping into the belly of the economic beast in America Stockman worked at Solomon Brothers [naturally] and at his own hedge fund in Greenwich Conn [where else]. His record was checkered as an investment guru. Like most theorist big picture economic geniuses " free markets" gave him no quarter. In 2007 the Securities and Exchange commission alleged fraud against Stockman and firm for perpetrating fraud against stockholders of a Detroit based auto parts supplier that went bankrupt, but in 2010 the US attorney decided not to pursue prosecution further because a settlement was planned by the parties involved.
Stockman's latest book is "The Great Deformation; the Corruption of Capitalism in America". The book is a timely and important book but has many errors in it. Promoting the book, Stockman has written in the New York Times and toured America lecturing and has been accused by most of ranting and being perpetually cranky. The message is that we have been fiscally irresponsible, deficits will swamp America soon and America is now morally, fiscally and ethically bankrupt.
John the Baptist the biblical profit preached that the Messiah would come soon to Judge the Romans and the corrupt Jewish administration strangling the Jewish people. John was beheaded by King Herod.
David Stockman was a congressman from Michigan in the 1970's and once studied divinity at Harvard in Graduate school.
John the Baptist baptized sinners with water and told them they could be forgiven of their sins by one who would Baptize in blood.
David Stockman knows not what or who is coming forth to Judge fiscally irresponsible morally bankrupt America. David Stockman studied divinity at Harvard.
Listen, who knows the time of Day?
David Stockman is confused, he has mis-judged some of the pertinent facts, but he knows that something earth shaking will effect America. David Stockman the former Reagan administration Budget director expects apocalypse for the American economy. David Stockman has a messianic burning desire to tell everyone what is coming to America's way of life but he doesn't exactly know the details of what he feels will happen very soon.
Listen, Who knows the time of day?
Thursday, December 26, 2013
drunk on eggnog; why the stock market is crazy around Christmas
drunk on eggnog; why the stock market is crazy around Christmas
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It happened again, two concept stocks that I once owned are going ballistic today to the up side. INO and VISN, the first INO a biotech with " a one of a kind technology to deliver a treatment for prostrate cancer" and the second VISN a Chinese advertising company once the first of it's kind in China to post ads on cross town buses. Both are up to recent highs with VISN now trading in the stratosphere with no earnings in sight and up 400% in the last few weeks at 500% above it's 200 day moving average.
I own neither stock, my stock ownership now days is limited to stocked two pound boxes of oatmeal saved in the pantry for coming hard times.
Why do some stocks behave like this around Christmas? VISN is difficult for American investors to short and financial updates are sketchy. With a small float and limited analyst coverage it is a favorite of the pump and dump crowd [IMO]. It trades on hope and hope abounds at Christmas time. Watch it soar until the professional traders return to work Jan 2, 2014 and market irregularities are corrected by sober analysis.
INO has potential but regularly needs more cash to continue research which is dilutive to existing shareholders. It negotiated an arrangement with a large pharmaceutical last year but such companies are quite fickle in their affections in my opinion. Additionally it has a limited pipeline IMO.
Why do small companies successfully trade on a wing and a prayer around Christmas? Professional traders take a few weeks off and the wing and a prayer crowd control the market for a few days around year end, or perhaps traders are drunk on eggnog temporarily.
Note
author does not give stock advice and has no financial interest in anything concrete anymore, but if I did own a small cap speculative stock now, up 400 % in a few weeks, near Christmas, I would sell, sell, sell and take my profits to the Goodwill and buy myself some new clothes.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It happened again, two concept stocks that I once owned are going ballistic today to the up side. INO and VISN, the first INO a biotech with " a one of a kind technology to deliver a treatment for prostrate cancer" and the second VISN a Chinese advertising company once the first of it's kind in China to post ads on cross town buses. Both are up to recent highs with VISN now trading in the stratosphere with no earnings in sight and up 400% in the last few weeks at 500% above it's 200 day moving average.
I own neither stock, my stock ownership now days is limited to stocked two pound boxes of oatmeal saved in the pantry for coming hard times.
Why do some stocks behave like this around Christmas? VISN is difficult for American investors to short and financial updates are sketchy. With a small float and limited analyst coverage it is a favorite of the pump and dump crowd [IMO]. It trades on hope and hope abounds at Christmas time. Watch it soar until the professional traders return to work Jan 2, 2014 and market irregularities are corrected by sober analysis.
INO has potential but regularly needs more cash to continue research which is dilutive to existing shareholders. It negotiated an arrangement with a large pharmaceutical last year but such companies are quite fickle in their affections in my opinion. Additionally it has a limited pipeline IMO.
Why do small companies successfully trade on a wing and a prayer around Christmas? Professional traders take a few weeks off and the wing and a prayer crowd control the market for a few days around year end, or perhaps traders are drunk on eggnog temporarily.
Note
author does not give stock advice and has no financial interest in anything concrete anymore, but if I did own a small cap speculative stock now, up 400 % in a few weeks, near Christmas, I would sell, sell, sell and take my profits to the Goodwill and buy myself some new clothes.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
suburban cowboy christmas eve 11am
suburban cowboy Christmas eve 11am
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stack loose wood tee pee style into a flickering windy fire,
sit close fireside to warm your stiff fingers and hands
drink Miller beer from a cloudy bell jar,
give the horses an extra flake of hay
sing silent night to the starry frozen sky
watch red embers and think what might have been
wrap in horse blanket and fall off to sleep on frosted ground
dream of Christmas trees and girls in red dresses
fiction
edward w pritchard
Stack loose wood tee pee style into a flickering windy fire,
sit close fireside to warm your stiff fingers and hands
drink Miller beer from a cloudy bell jar,
give the horses an extra flake of hay
sing silent night to the starry frozen sky
watch red embers and think what might have been
wrap in horse blanket and fall off to sleep on frosted ground
dream of Christmas trees and girls in red dresses
magicians on the rebound
magicians on the rebound
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Jimmy Ospers
creative writing 8A
Miss Kinesis
My preparation for obtaining a satisfying secure career will be to become qualified to be a placement officer specializing in the field of helping Magicians find employment in all areas of work. I may go to a two year training program at Stark tech, the Deerfield branch on 225 South, but most likely I will do a lot of reading and study of Journals related to being a working Magician and then learn the job placement skills themselves by working or interning at an office in Damascus, Ohio or a similar place having job placement firms.
I feel there will be a growing demand for Magicians in the work force over the next twenty to thirty years. However, sometimes it is difficult for magicians to originally break in to companies and firms because it is challenging to match a magicians skills with the demands of the workplace. Not only will I learn about Magicians from the study of trade journals and possibly going to magic shows in Branson Missouri or even Las Vegas, but I also hope to work as a magicians assistant at Summer stock theater at Geauga Lake this summer in Ohio. This will provide me with actual knowledge of the trade of being a magician. I also know and am related to an actual magician.
There are no special licenses to be a magician but some States require special forms to work as a DBA, or under an alien name, like California. A magician should be in good physical condition, have excellent dexterity and enjoy interacting with people. Also business skills are necessary to find jobs and keep records and such. A certain amount of savoir faire is a good trait to have if one is to be a popular magician.
Working in a placement firm itself is a satisfying secure field of employment. Management often makes over 50K per year. Specialists such as a person specializing in the placement of experienced magicians into career change work into the corporate field of security and theft protection at retail firms or software and Internet can make over 100K per year. There is no information on the job category of magician placement officer yet on the government census and SIC web site which implies that it is a new dynamic and up and coming field. It's a good time to get in to this line of work.
In summary I plan to train myself to be a placement officer working exclusively in the area of placing experienced magicians into corporate American businesses which will help me become a solid American citizen and respected member of my community.
PS
Sorry this is late Miss Kenesis, my brother Ike pushed my Mom's new boyfriend Lance down the front steps and the cops came last night. It was a zoo at our house and I talked on the phone to my Dad after his act in Myrtle Beach, SC until six AM this morning.
jimmie
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Jimmy Ospers
creative writing 8A
Miss Kinesis
My preparation for obtaining a satisfying secure career will be to become qualified to be a placement officer specializing in the field of helping Magicians find employment in all areas of work. I may go to a two year training program at Stark tech, the Deerfield branch on 225 South, but most likely I will do a lot of reading and study of Journals related to being a working Magician and then learn the job placement skills themselves by working or interning at an office in Damascus, Ohio or a similar place having job placement firms.
I feel there will be a growing demand for Magicians in the work force over the next twenty to thirty years. However, sometimes it is difficult for magicians to originally break in to companies and firms because it is challenging to match a magicians skills with the demands of the workplace. Not only will I learn about Magicians from the study of trade journals and possibly going to magic shows in Branson Missouri or even Las Vegas, but I also hope to work as a magicians assistant at Summer stock theater at Geauga Lake this summer in Ohio. This will provide me with actual knowledge of the trade of being a magician. I also know and am related to an actual magician.
There are no special licenses to be a magician but some States require special forms to work as a DBA, or under an alien name, like California. A magician should be in good physical condition, have excellent dexterity and enjoy interacting with people. Also business skills are necessary to find jobs and keep records and such. A certain amount of savoir faire is a good trait to have if one is to be a popular magician.
Working in a placement firm itself is a satisfying secure field of employment. Management often makes over 50K per year. Specialists such as a person specializing in the placement of experienced magicians into career change work into the corporate field of security and theft protection at retail firms or software and Internet can make over 100K per year. There is no information on the job category of magician placement officer yet on the government census and SIC web site which implies that it is a new dynamic and up and coming field. It's a good time to get in to this line of work.
In summary I plan to train myself to be a placement officer working exclusively in the area of placing experienced magicians into corporate American businesses which will help me become a solid American citizen and respected member of my community.
PS
Sorry this is late Miss Kenesis, my brother Ike pushed my Mom's new boyfriend Lance down the front steps and the cops came last night. It was a zoo at our house and I talked on the phone to my Dad after his act in Myrtle Beach, SC until six AM this morning.
jimmie
don't take counsel with your fears he said
don't take counsel with your fears he said
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Christmas Message 2013:
Jesus passed me face to face crossing the waterless dry Sinai desert. He was walking North with his followers I trudged South alone.
Lowing his face scarf to speak, he said to me as we passed, " don't take counsel with your fears".
Walking I wondered if he knew what would happen and longed for the waters of life.
How does he recognize us trapped in the deserts of our minds?
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Christmas Message 2013:
Jesus passed me face to face crossing the waterless dry Sinai desert. He was walking North with his followers I trudged South alone.
Lowing his face scarf to speak, he said to me as we passed, " don't take counsel with your fears".
Walking I wondered if he knew what would happen and longed for the waters of life.
How does he recognize us trapped in the deserts of our minds?
our regrets
our regrets
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Our regrets flow relentlessly,
like cracking spattered scalding lava,
cooled by woman's salty tears,
fanned by broken dreams and aspirations,
spackled with secret whispered conversations
delivered with anxious red pajama reputation
to congeal, frigidly
into to hallowed mountains of separation
turning miles into millennial monumental minefields of remorse.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Our regrets flow relentlessly,
like cracking spattered scalding lava,
cooled by woman's salty tears,
fanned by broken dreams and aspirations,
spackled with secret whispered conversations
delivered with anxious red pajama reputation
to congeal, frigidly
into to hallowed mountains of separation
turning miles into millennial monumental minefields of remorse.
Monday, December 23, 2013
fly far
fly far
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Fly far, fly low to the ground.
Soar over mountains,
feel cold wind in cedars,
hear splashing rain soaked butterfly,
quenched by burning
spattered with raindrops
land in wildfires,
rest on blazing golden boughs.
Fly far, land safely
rest on golden boughs.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Fly far, fly low to the ground.
Soar over mountains,
feel cold wind in cedars,
hear splashing rain soaked butterfly,
quenched by burning
spattered with raindrops
land in wildfires,
rest on blazing golden boughs.
Fly far, land safely
rest on golden boughs.
wake softly
wake softly
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Sleep hard and wake softly.
I'll watch silently from afar
to insure you get home safely
across three thousand years in private.
I'll whistle in the dark alone,
walk down the hillsides of your dreams,
smile at your triumphs,
and kiss your hand once each century when you start your day.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Sleep hard and wake softly.
I'll watch silently from afar
to insure you get home safely
across three thousand years in private.
I'll whistle in the dark alone,
walk down the hillsides of your dreams,
smile at your triumphs,
and kiss your hand once each century when you start your day.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Dads little girl gone
Dad's little girl gone
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
So small but strong of voice and bright of eyes. First row front, second from center; seven years old little Miss sunshine, Dad's girl singing in the choir.
Eighteen years later, first row center second from middle singing in the choir, quiet and dignified, small smile with dark beautiful eyes lowered if stared at; little girl gone, Dad's Daughter.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
So small but strong of voice and bright of eyes. First row front, second from center; seven years old little Miss sunshine, Dad's girl singing in the choir.
Eighteen years later, first row center second from middle singing in the choir, quiet and dignified, small smile with dark beautiful eyes lowered if stared at; little girl gone, Dad's Daughter.
keno's secret strategies to pick your numbers
keno's secret strategies to pick your numbers
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Miss Ford the teacher was sitting alone at the sports bar in Uniontown stretching her arms behind her back to attract attention when I received her message and decided to investigate. I had been eating my chicken strips dinner alone playing Ohio lottery keno when I noticed her and decided to share her with my Keno card. I invited her to pick seven and then nine lucky numbers between 1 and eighty with me and bought her second glass of California red Syrah wine.
When I was twelve my Uncle Gino had always told me that if you were first with a new woman to always agree with everything she said. I was having trouble agreeing with Miss Ford's philosophy concerning her strategy for picking the seven Keno numbers we needed to fill out her Keno card. Once she understood the basic rules of Keno she had definite opinions concerning how to pick seven or nine numbers for the Ohio Lottery drawing every three minutes in Keno.
Miss Ford was a very pretty red head so I listened patiently to her theories concerning number patterns, time duration, and random sequences. It was all quite confusing. Since she taught math occasionally over at the High School I figured she knew some things I didn't.
Anyway we didn't have much luck at Keno that Friday night at the sports Bar and I never called Miss Ford the very pretty teacher.
Concerning Keno I have decided to eat my dinners alone over at the Sports Bar and not mix business with pleasure when I am picking nine secret numbers special only to me; like my ex wife's birthday or my baseball batting average in my second year in little league.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Miss Ford the teacher was sitting alone at the sports bar in Uniontown stretching her arms behind her back to attract attention when I received her message and decided to investigate. I had been eating my chicken strips dinner alone playing Ohio lottery keno when I noticed her and decided to share her with my Keno card. I invited her to pick seven and then nine lucky numbers between 1 and eighty with me and bought her second glass of California red Syrah wine.
When I was twelve my Uncle Gino had always told me that if you were first with a new woman to always agree with everything she said. I was having trouble agreeing with Miss Ford's philosophy concerning her strategy for picking the seven Keno numbers we needed to fill out her Keno card. Once she understood the basic rules of Keno she had definite opinions concerning how to pick seven or nine numbers for the Ohio Lottery drawing every three minutes in Keno.
Miss Ford was a very pretty red head so I listened patiently to her theories concerning number patterns, time duration, and random sequences. It was all quite confusing. Since she taught math occasionally over at the High School I figured she knew some things I didn't.
Anyway we didn't have much luck at Keno that Friday night at the sports Bar and I never called Miss Ford the very pretty teacher.
Concerning Keno I have decided to eat my dinners alone over at the Sports Bar and not mix business with pleasure when I am picking nine secret numbers special only to me; like my ex wife's birthday or my baseball batting average in my second year in little league.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
youngest child, wisest child
youngest child, wisest child
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
When Uncle Gino passed away suddenly up in the third floor attic bedroom every one kept busy with the preparations for the funeral. Being the youngest I was as unusual left out of things.
Wanting to help I crept up into the third floor bedroom where uncle Gino used to tell me stories about his day as a jockey at the harness tracks in Ohio and used one of his old white socks to dust the Bible my Mother had laid on the nightstand near the bed over a year ago. I ruined the sock but I tossed it out in the garbage afterward and no one was the wiser. I never mentioned about the Bible but our Minister went up in the third floor bedroom later the night Uncle Gino died and at the funeral he never mentioned a dusty bible and that would be just the kind of thing a Minister of our religion would center a funeral sermon on.
I have always secretly known that I was the wisest of my parents five children.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
When Uncle Gino passed away suddenly up in the third floor attic bedroom every one kept busy with the preparations for the funeral. Being the youngest I was as unusual left out of things.
Wanting to help I crept up into the third floor bedroom where uncle Gino used to tell me stories about his day as a jockey at the harness tracks in Ohio and used one of his old white socks to dust the Bible my Mother had laid on the nightstand near the bed over a year ago. I ruined the sock but I tossed it out in the garbage afterward and no one was the wiser. I never mentioned about the Bible but our Minister went up in the third floor bedroom later the night Uncle Gino died and at the funeral he never mentioned a dusty bible and that would be just the kind of thing a Minister of our religion would center a funeral sermon on.
I have always secretly known that I was the wisest of my parents five children.
Another clerk at the convenience store
another clerk at the convenience store
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Three hundred and sixty five days a year the customers are irritated with you if you are a little over weight and take in money, clean, cook their budget gourmet coffee, and change the waste container liners outside by the gas pumps at the large well lit convenience store here on South Main Street in Akron. Sometimes in the middle of the shift Medari the general manager will send me to his other gas station in Kent to take them change or something like that so they don't run out of unrolled nickels or quarters. I have to take my own car and Medari never pays me for gas. Sometimes I feel invisible to the customers.
I know that I am not pretty enough to work at the Star Bucks where the crew splits up tips and jokes around with each other while they go about their working rushing to and fro at hyper speed. Maybe I shouldn't eat so much junk food during work but my job can be stressful. These salesmen come in and I'll have a long line of irritated women late for work and the handsome delivery guys will pull their Pepsi Trucks trucks right into the middle of the lot and block all the pumps and then demand that we count and verify their delivery priority one.
It's seems like it's always winter or raining here in Ohio. Usually I don't have time to pull on a coat when the trash containers are full to overflow out near the gas pumps and my feet always seem to be a little wet and slushy.
My shift starts at six AM. Only you have to be in at 5:45 to review stock before you start and count the drawers. I quit at 2PM. Only if it's 2:15 sometimes Medari will trick me into driving up to the Kent station because Sally the assistant manager, his close friend that his wife the RN doesn't know about is sick for the second time this week and no else had time to make it to the Bank and I have to drive up and do their deposits for them.
About six thirty AM the older people come in to to buy lottery. They talk and talk about their daughters in Illinois or their sons five miles across town who are always too busy with their wives families to see them at Holidays. Old people at least want to know if you have a name and then they always remember it for years and years and call you by name when you hold up the line of irritated women late for work to sell them lottery. Old people don't understand the concept of random numbers. Each one has a theory about special numbers that are lucky to them like, six, seven, three, eighteen or twenty seven their football shirt number back in high school in 1955. Old people never tip when a lucky one of them finally wins fifty or seventy five dollars at lottery.
If I was pretty and sexy I would like to be able to work as the bar girl at the counter at a sports bar and sell Keno cards to handsome men and have them give me hundred dollar tips when they won a thousand or two. I would joke with them about how tough life is while they drank beer and followed me about with their eyes as they waited for their pizza orders to take home to their families. If the owner hassled me there at the sports bar I would tell them to screw themselves and they would have to take it and be nice with me because all the men customers would only come to our bar because of me. If I quit waitressing the owner would know half his customers would follow me to the next place down the road to buy their beer and keno tickets.
After work I head on home to take care of my Mom who is handicapped and just watches television all day. Her and I have a lot of special cable series shows that we watch each specific night of the week. Sometimes I will get us fast food because both of us are always on diets. My brother never manages to stop by to help with Mom. He lives over In Kent and his wife is a princess who needs to be catered to. She doesn't see Mom except when Mom is taken by ambulance to the Hospital. Usually my brother brings ribs or buffalo wings when he does finally stop by to give me a break from taking care of Mom.
If I was pretty and sexy I would like to be one of the service girls at the Lexus dealership who write up the repair orders for the handsome men. I would know a lot about car repairs and be able to astound everyone with my diagnosis's. I would joke with all the mechanics and a few of the good looking salesmen would call and text me on weekends. Or if I was pretty and smart I would be one of the women Doctors over at the Hospitals who help with the sick children.
end
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Three hundred and sixty five days a year the customers are irritated with you if you are a little over weight and take in money, clean, cook their budget gourmet coffee, and change the waste container liners outside by the gas pumps at the large well lit convenience store here on South Main Street in Akron. Sometimes in the middle of the shift Medari the general manager will send me to his other gas station in Kent to take them change or something like that so they don't run out of unrolled nickels or quarters. I have to take my own car and Medari never pays me for gas. Sometimes I feel invisible to the customers.
I know that I am not pretty enough to work at the Star Bucks where the crew splits up tips and jokes around with each other while they go about their working rushing to and fro at hyper speed. Maybe I shouldn't eat so much junk food during work but my job can be stressful. These salesmen come in and I'll have a long line of irritated women late for work and the handsome delivery guys will pull their Pepsi Trucks trucks right into the middle of the lot and block all the pumps and then demand that we count and verify their delivery priority one.
It's seems like it's always winter or raining here in Ohio. Usually I don't have time to pull on a coat when the trash containers are full to overflow out near the gas pumps and my feet always seem to be a little wet and slushy.
My shift starts at six AM. Only you have to be in at 5:45 to review stock before you start and count the drawers. I quit at 2PM. Only if it's 2:15 sometimes Medari will trick me into driving up to the Kent station because Sally the assistant manager, his close friend that his wife the RN doesn't know about is sick for the second time this week and no else had time to make it to the Bank and I have to drive up and do their deposits for them.
About six thirty AM the older people come in to to buy lottery. They talk and talk about their daughters in Illinois or their sons five miles across town who are always too busy with their wives families to see them at Holidays. Old people at least want to know if you have a name and then they always remember it for years and years and call you by name when you hold up the line of irritated women late for work to sell them lottery. Old people don't understand the concept of random numbers. Each one has a theory about special numbers that are lucky to them like, six, seven, three, eighteen or twenty seven their football shirt number back in high school in 1955. Old people never tip when a lucky one of them finally wins fifty or seventy five dollars at lottery.
If I was pretty and sexy I would like to be able to work as the bar girl at the counter at a sports bar and sell Keno cards to handsome men and have them give me hundred dollar tips when they won a thousand or two. I would joke with them about how tough life is while they drank beer and followed me about with their eyes as they waited for their pizza orders to take home to their families. If the owner hassled me there at the sports bar I would tell them to screw themselves and they would have to take it and be nice with me because all the men customers would only come to our bar because of me. If I quit waitressing the owner would know half his customers would follow me to the next place down the road to buy their beer and keno tickets.
After work I head on home to take care of my Mom who is handicapped and just watches television all day. Her and I have a lot of special cable series shows that we watch each specific night of the week. Sometimes I will get us fast food because both of us are always on diets. My brother never manages to stop by to help with Mom. He lives over In Kent and his wife is a princess who needs to be catered to. She doesn't see Mom except when Mom is taken by ambulance to the Hospital. Usually my brother brings ribs or buffalo wings when he does finally stop by to give me a break from taking care of Mom.
If I was pretty and sexy I would like to be one of the service girls at the Lexus dealership who write up the repair orders for the handsome men. I would know a lot about car repairs and be able to astound everyone with my diagnosis's. I would joke with all the mechanics and a few of the good looking salesmen would call and text me on weekends. Or if I was pretty and smart I would be one of the women Doctors over at the Hospitals who help with the sick children.
end
Friday, December 20, 2013
a play in a play, an aged actor addresses the audience's audience
a play in a play, an aged actor addresses the audience's audience
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit 4/ repost and update new material
Part 1
start
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit 4/ repost and update new material
Part 1
start
Thursday, June 13, 2013
aged actor, still on stage after his lines are done/ edit 2
the world as a stage
fiction
edward w pritchard
The world as a stage and I stumble about without a script.
My part long since over I can't find a way through the curtains.
Once at 10AM I played the young gentleman to be,
Standing center stage for a moment I put my arm around the waist of a proper bride.
Then fashions changed, tastes came and went and time crept forward.
Now it's 10PM and I watch myself still on stage repeating my 10AM gentleman to be lines.
Thousands of small dramas occur simultaneously about me by other players as the audience takes five, waiting for order to return to the theatre.
I walk about upstage, upstage with the other finished actors,
circling, circling , waiting for my next cue.
I'll take one last look back at the young gentleman and his timeless bride, before the director clears me from the stage.
end part 1
part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
The world as a stage and I stumble about without a script.
My part long since over I can't find a way through the curtains.
Once at 10AM I played the young gentleman to be,
Standing center stage for a moment I put my arm around the waist of a proper bride.
Then fashions changed, tastes came and went and time crept forward.
Now it's 10PM and I watch myself still on stage repeating my 10AM gentleman to be lines.
Thousands of small dramas occur simultaneously about me by other players as the audience takes five, waiting for order to return to the theatre.
I walk about upstage, upstage with the other finished actors,
circling, circling , waiting for my next cue.
I'll take one last look back at the young gentleman and his timeless bride, before the director clears me from the stage.
end part 1
part 2
John Master's mayberry choir director and friends / part 2
John Masters Mayberry choir director and friends / part 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It's hard to keep anything from the desk clerk at the only hotel in a one horse town like Maybeery, North Carolina. Sometimes old John Masters, the desk clerk would give me the wink when I would sneak Lou-anne Poouvie up into room 3 there at the Maybeery hotel to ostensibly practice our singing for the Mayberry choir. Lou-anne couldn't carry a tune but oh, that body and that amazing Southern accent. I sing a bit myself, I am Gomer Pyle USMC.
John and I used to drive around a lot looking for chicks in Maybeery back in the late 50's. That was challenging. I always kept up John's car for free for him and he would give me a discount on the day rate there at the hotel; charge me for one instead of two on a single bed rate and things like that. I used to tell my girls to be quiet up there in the second floor hotel room so old John couldn't hear us but sometimes we got a bit carried away. Like the time with Thelma Lou's cousin from out of town. Wow that Thelma Lou, I tried with her but she was stuck on Barney, the deputy. Barney never appreciated Thelma Lou.
John sings and knows a lot about music. This isn't common knowledge but John fixed me up once with one the fun girls, Skippy was her first name, I forget the last. Come to think of it I never heard Thelma Lou's last name either. I guess we just called women by their first names in those days, to keep it casual and informal.
John and I often sang together and he had a powerful voice for a small man. Small of frame only but powerful of soul was John Masters Mayberry choir director. He was well thought of as a musical director in the counties surrounding Maybeery and him, me and my cousin Goober had some wild times with the party girls down in the back country of North Carolina before I moved to California when I was in the Marine Corps. Me and John would sing as we drove around and Goober he would just comment a lot with a " Yo" now and then. Goober always had that strange expression on his face when he said " yo". Now Goober, there was a guy who never had a way with the ladies.
Sometimes I would drink with Raif Hollister and then we would head out to Morelli's fine dining restaurant. You can take a bottle into Morelli's if you want, and I got that legal advice from Deputy Fife so it's on the up and up. Anyway that Raif he had a wonderful voice. Raif didn't look like much but he always cleaned up well.
I gotta go, it was nice talking to you folks from Ohio but I got cars and old trucks to fix and long convoluted stories to tell to the gang here in Maybeery about old Hootie. Sorry about the civil war and such.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
It's hard to keep anything from the desk clerk at the only hotel in a one horse town like Maybeery, North Carolina. Sometimes old John Masters, the desk clerk would give me the wink when I would sneak Lou-anne Poouvie up into room 3 there at the Maybeery hotel to ostensibly practice our singing for the Mayberry choir. Lou-anne couldn't carry a tune but oh, that body and that amazing Southern accent. I sing a bit myself, I am Gomer Pyle USMC.
John and I used to drive around a lot looking for chicks in Maybeery back in the late 50's. That was challenging. I always kept up John's car for free for him and he would give me a discount on the day rate there at the hotel; charge me for one instead of two on a single bed rate and things like that. I used to tell my girls to be quiet up there in the second floor hotel room so old John couldn't hear us but sometimes we got a bit carried away. Like the time with Thelma Lou's cousin from out of town. Wow that Thelma Lou, I tried with her but she was stuck on Barney, the deputy. Barney never appreciated Thelma Lou.
John sings and knows a lot about music. This isn't common knowledge but John fixed me up once with one the fun girls, Skippy was her first name, I forget the last. Come to think of it I never heard Thelma Lou's last name either. I guess we just called women by their first names in those days, to keep it casual and informal.
John and I often sang together and he had a powerful voice for a small man. Small of frame only but powerful of soul was John Masters Mayberry choir director. He was well thought of as a musical director in the counties surrounding Maybeery and him, me and my cousin Goober had some wild times with the party girls down in the back country of North Carolina before I moved to California when I was in the Marine Corps. Me and John would sing as we drove around and Goober he would just comment a lot with a " Yo" now and then. Goober always had that strange expression on his face when he said " yo". Now Goober, there was a guy who never had a way with the ladies.
Sometimes I would drink with Raif Hollister and then we would head out to Morelli's fine dining restaurant. You can take a bottle into Morelli's if you want, and I got that legal advice from Deputy Fife so it's on the up and up. Anyway that Raif he had a wonderful voice. Raif didn't look like much but he always cleaned up well.
I gotta go, it was nice talking to you folks from Ohio but I got cars and old trucks to fix and long convoluted stories to tell to the gang here in Maybeery about old Hootie. Sorry about the civil war and such.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
So many things interrupt fine music
So many things interrupt fine music
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
So many things interrupt fine music. As an example go to you tube again and type in and listen to if you can " baby please don't go" by John Lennon and Frank Zappa. Both are creative geniuses and fine musicians. The problem is Yoko again. As she did when John played with Chuck Berry, Yoko Ono is again howling and screeching on stage, she is howling literally when John Lennon sings with Frank Zappa.
Yoko howls. It is not the Lightening Hopkins version of " Baby please don't go" covered by John Lennon that I thought I was going to hear but Yoko again screeching. So many things interrupt fine music. John and Frank Zappa of the Mother's of invention both dead and their joint recording ruined by Yoko Ono howling over and over. Frank Zappa once produced a song called " Burnt Winnie sandwich" but what must he have thought of John and Yoko?
John Lennon bringing his lady to perform. Sometimes it's just so wrong. Howl-lll, Howl-llll, Howl-ll.
You know John Lennon is one of my idols; perhaps he and Yoko watched King Lear together once and John is letting Yoko recreate Act 5 scene 3, the " I'd crack heavens open with my lament" scene, yes that's it, it's just her way of expressing her opinion of the world.
end
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
So many things interrupt fine music. As an example go to you tube again and type in and listen to if you can " baby please don't go" by John Lennon and Frank Zappa. Both are creative geniuses and fine musicians. The problem is Yoko again. As she did when John played with Chuck Berry, Yoko Ono is again howling and screeching on stage, she is howling literally when John Lennon sings with Frank Zappa.
Yoko howls. It is not the Lightening Hopkins version of " Baby please don't go" covered by John Lennon that I thought I was going to hear but Yoko again screeching. So many things interrupt fine music. John and Frank Zappa of the Mother's of invention both dead and their joint recording ruined by Yoko Ono howling over and over. Frank Zappa once produced a song called " Burnt Winnie sandwich" but what must he have thought of John and Yoko?
John Lennon bringing his lady to perform. Sometimes it's just so wrong. Howl-lll, Howl-llll, Howl-ll.
You know John Lennon is one of my idols; perhaps he and Yoko watched King Lear together once and John is letting Yoko recreate Act 5 scene 3, the " I'd crack heavens open with my lament" scene, yes that's it, it's just her way of expressing her opinion of the world.
end
I discourage me receiving christmas gifts these days
I discourage me receiving Christmas gifts these days
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I discourage me receiving Christmas gifts these days. Rather than receive a gift I prefer to buy a used book for someone special to me. It gives me something to do to shop around for books costing less than two dollars and it's rewarding when I find something that I think matches the interests of someone special to me. Whether I receive presents or not really is Ok to me either way.
I don't buy myself gifts for Christmas. When you think about it it's an odd custom. I used to do that sometimes, buy something for myself at Christmas but, don't anymore. If I was buying something it would be nice to get "Champagne and Reefer" by Muddy Waters. Of course, I don't buy myself presents anymore even when it's dark and lonely here in Ohio at Christmas.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I discourage me receiving Christmas gifts these days. Rather than receive a gift I prefer to buy a used book for someone special to me. It gives me something to do to shop around for books costing less than two dollars and it's rewarding when I find something that I think matches the interests of someone special to me. Whether I receive presents or not really is Ok to me either way.
I don't buy myself gifts for Christmas. When you think about it it's an odd custom. I used to do that sometimes, buy something for myself at Christmas but, don't anymore. If I was buying something it would be nice to get "Champagne and Reefer" by Muddy Waters. Of course, I don't buy myself presents anymore even when it's dark and lonely here in Ohio at Christmas.
still waiting for my christmas card from Minneapolis
still waiting for my Christmas card from Minneapolis
part 2 first, then repost edit part 1
My mailbox got knocked down so I might have missed the Christmas card from Minneapolis. I am not sure if the mailman in his racing truck across the snow covered roads took it back to his supervisor at the post office to hold or if he just tossed the Christmas Card out of his truck at the end of his shift. It gets dark early here just South of Cleveland in Mid December and the roads stay snow covered for weeks at a time. When the snow plows dart about they make sparks and the noise wakes me up at 5AM when their shift starts.
I got one Christmas card so far. It's from my Aunt who is a good Christian and always sends cards to friends and relatives who live da solo, if you speak Italian you know da solo means to live by one's self and you know she sends me the cards every Holiday throughout the year because I am e tanto solo which means he is so lonely. Naturally since I don't send Christmas cards I don't get any; it didn't use to matter but now it's nice to get a card in the mailbox rather than threatening notices.
Tom Waits' song "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis" is so soulful. It's poignant to hear at Christmas if you are e tanto solo. I like it better than "Blue Christmas" recorded by just about everybody.
end part 2
Part 1
previously posted
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
digressions on a song by Tom Waits
fiction
edward w pritchard
I 've never been to Minneapolis. Never visited the twin cities or the land of Lakes. I don't have any friends there at all who might send me a Christmas card. I envy the singer Tom Waits who has friends in Minneapolis who send him Christmas cards; like in his song "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis."
Down here in Cleveland it's not so cold in winter. Hookers down here, around Cleveland they don't write much. They aren't too friendly either and Hookers here around Cleveland, Ohio are not too sentimental. They don't send Christmas cards and they don't keep in touch.
Someday maybe around Christmas I can go up to Minneapolis and meet some new friends.
end
part 2 first, then repost edit part 1
My mailbox got knocked down so I might have missed the Christmas card from Minneapolis. I am not sure if the mailman in his racing truck across the snow covered roads took it back to his supervisor at the post office to hold or if he just tossed the Christmas Card out of his truck at the end of his shift. It gets dark early here just South of Cleveland in Mid December and the roads stay snow covered for weeks at a time. When the snow plows dart about they make sparks and the noise wakes me up at 5AM when their shift starts.
I got one Christmas card so far. It's from my Aunt who is a good Christian and always sends cards to friends and relatives who live da solo, if you speak Italian you know da solo means to live by one's self and you know she sends me the cards every Holiday throughout the year because I am e tanto solo which means he is so lonely. Naturally since I don't send Christmas cards I don't get any; it didn't use to matter but now it's nice to get a card in the mailbox rather than threatening notices.
Tom Waits' song "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis" is so soulful. It's poignant to hear at Christmas if you are e tanto solo. I like it better than "Blue Christmas" recorded by just about everybody.
end part 2
Part 1
previously posted
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
digressions on a song by Tom Waits
fiction
edward w pritchard
I 've never been to Minneapolis. Never visited the twin cities or the land of Lakes. I don't have any friends there at all who might send me a Christmas card. I envy the singer Tom Waits who has friends in Minneapolis who send him Christmas cards; like in his song "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis."
Down here in Cleveland it's not so cold in winter. Hookers down here, around Cleveland they don't write much. They aren't too friendly either and Hookers here around Cleveland, Ohio are not too sentimental. They don't send Christmas cards and they don't keep in touch.
Someday maybe around Christmas I can go up to Minneapolis and meet some new friends.
end
Steppin' out; it's philosophy round the clock but it's blues after midnight at my house / part 2
Steppin' out; It's philosophy round the clock but it's blues after midnight at my house/ part 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
for Memphis Slim who woke me up
That Doctor didn't mince his words. I could cash in the chips any day now. I would be lucky to make it a few more months. The old heart had been broken once and for all and was about to stop. Life would go on but not for me.
I took the news well I thought. I had been half dead for a long time anyway.
That Doctor was no diplomat. My few loved ones were crowded around a hospital bed and I felt a little foolish for bringing on such a fuss. Maybe I should think about myself instead of the bill. This sounded serious. Even my dearest friend had stopped by, she kind of smiled down at me and I felt a little better.
It looked like I might be steppin out of this life real soon. When you hear the news it's like the book you have been reading is suddenly turned to the last page. What's the secret message of it all?
Well for me it was all about Memphis Slim. Yes, the piano blues man. He brought me comfort in my grief. " you may have me all the time, you may never pass my way, Mother Earth is waiting for you that's a debt you got to pay."
Suddenly the hospital bill doesn't seem so important.
Memphis Slim's lyric were cleaved from an ancient rock and handed to me in language I couldn't ignore. " You may not be happy all the time, you may never feel that way, Mother Earth is waiting for you that's a debt you have to pay." It was the same old song but with a different meaning that night after the heart tried to quit pumping once and for all.
The blues sing a lonely walk. Mean old blues you got to walk alone. Nobody else can walk them for you. Your diamonds will keep their beauty long after you are gone only some one else will wear them and worry about thieves taking them.
"When it all comes down you got to get down to Mother Earth."
A series time or B series time in philosophy is so confusing. Change your philosophy; " when it all comes down you got to get back to Mother Earth."
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
for Memphis Slim who woke me up
That Doctor didn't mince his words. I could cash in the chips any day now. I would be lucky to make it a few more months. The old heart had been broken once and for all and was about to stop. Life would go on but not for me.
I took the news well I thought. I had been half dead for a long time anyway.
That Doctor was no diplomat. My few loved ones were crowded around a hospital bed and I felt a little foolish for bringing on such a fuss. Maybe I should think about myself instead of the bill. This sounded serious. Even my dearest friend had stopped by, she kind of smiled down at me and I felt a little better.
It looked like I might be steppin out of this life real soon. When you hear the news it's like the book you have been reading is suddenly turned to the last page. What's the secret message of it all?
Well for me it was all about Memphis Slim. Yes, the piano blues man. He brought me comfort in my grief. " you may have me all the time, you may never pass my way, Mother Earth is waiting for you that's a debt you got to pay."
Suddenly the hospital bill doesn't seem so important.
Memphis Slim's lyric were cleaved from an ancient rock and handed to me in language I couldn't ignore. " You may not be happy all the time, you may never feel that way, Mother Earth is waiting for you that's a debt you have to pay." It was the same old song but with a different meaning that night after the heart tried to quit pumping once and for all.
The blues sing a lonely walk. Mean old blues you got to walk alone. Nobody else can walk them for you. Your diamonds will keep their beauty long after you are gone only some one else will wear them and worry about thieves taking them.
"When it all comes down you got to get down to Mother Earth."
A series time or B series time in philosophy is so confusing. Change your philosophy; " when it all comes down you got to get back to Mother Earth."
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Just the bass player
Just the bass player
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
a back up blues singer plays with blues great Lightening Hopkins on tour tonight
start:
The bass player sets the beat. I'm working hard here Lightening.
You lead Lightening, I follow. Please don't glare at me while we play live; it's hard to play bass when you play rhythm, lead, bass too and slap that guitar while you confidently compose poetry night after night.
Let me sit in the back, off center stage and let me set the beat for the audience, for them, we don't all have your inspiration. They came tonight to be entertained for an hour, that's all. Let's work together to make music.
They say you were born of the devil Lightening. You got your inspiration at birth and the blues just flow out of you. Don't glare at me Lightening through those dark sunglasses and from under your white bowler hat.
Doff your hat to me Lightening, rock back and forth and I'll try to keep up tonight.
I enjoy it when you compose on stage. I am a fan of yours too Mr. Hopkins.
My name, don't matter, I am just the bass player.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
a back up blues singer plays with blues great Lightening Hopkins on tour tonight
start:
The bass player sets the beat. I'm working hard here Lightening.
You lead Lightening, I follow. Please don't glare at me while we play live; it's hard to play bass when you play rhythm, lead, bass too and slap that guitar while you confidently compose poetry night after night.
Let me sit in the back, off center stage and let me set the beat for the audience, for them, we don't all have your inspiration. They came tonight to be entertained for an hour, that's all. Let's work together to make music.
They say you were born of the devil Lightening. You got your inspiration at birth and the blues just flow out of you. Don't glare at me Lightening through those dark sunglasses and from under your white bowler hat.
Doff your hat to me Lightening, rock back and forth and I'll try to keep up tonight.
I enjoy it when you compose on stage. I am a fan of yours too Mr. Hopkins.
My name, don't matter, I am just the bass player.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
delta blues 1933
delta blues 1933
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Saturday night. I got my new black hat and got me a white suede jacket with tight straight leg black pants. I'm ruining my Edwin clap brown boots though in this delta mud. Instead of being at uptown dance with Piney Walter here I walk behind the farm mule plowing Mississippi mud. I plow when I need to think. The mule he don't say much but he is good company tonight. We walk and work together sometimes like this but not usually on my Saturday night off work in my best clothes.
I'll not go to that dance. Lorraine Turnbo will be there with Big Winston Brown. I told her how I feel about him. She wants us both. Someone will die tonight if I see Winston with Lorraine.
It's not fair to our mule to make him work on his night off. I'll take the 44 caliber rifle that my brother keeps over the fireplace and head on uptown. I have something I want to say to Lorraine tonight.
First I better get me a drink or two at bog hill tavern. I'll listen to piano to cool me off. Someone is gonna die tonight, maybe me.
Music is good here in Mississippi. No one plays piano like a Mississippi man. Time for me to head on uptown. Things will be changed come morning. It's good to have new clothes to wear uptown.
Maybe I should have said goodbye to our mule. If I get the chance I'll ask Piney to say goodbye to our mule for me; in case, you know, just in case.
Have you ever loved a woman?
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Saturday night. I got my new black hat and got me a white suede jacket with tight straight leg black pants. I'm ruining my Edwin clap brown boots though in this delta mud. Instead of being at uptown dance with Piney Walter here I walk behind the farm mule plowing Mississippi mud. I plow when I need to think. The mule he don't say much but he is good company tonight. We walk and work together sometimes like this but not usually on my Saturday night off work in my best clothes.
I'll not go to that dance. Lorraine Turnbo will be there with Big Winston Brown. I told her how I feel about him. She wants us both. Someone will die tonight if I see Winston with Lorraine.
It's not fair to our mule to make him work on his night off. I'll take the 44 caliber rifle that my brother keeps over the fireplace and head on uptown. I have something I want to say to Lorraine tonight.
First I better get me a drink or two at bog hill tavern. I'll listen to piano to cool me off. Someone is gonna die tonight, maybe me.
Music is good here in Mississippi. No one plays piano like a Mississippi man. Time for me to head on uptown. Things will be changed come morning. It's good to have new clothes to wear uptown.
Maybe I should have said goodbye to our mule. If I get the chance I'll ask Piney to say goodbye to our mule for me; in case, you know, just in case.
Have you ever loved a woman?
three kinds of ladies; a tutorial on bonds as an investment for everyone/ draft 1
three kinds of ladies; a tutorial on bonds as an investment for everyone/ draft 1
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Merry Christmas to my nephew Steve
reader:
JNK is the market symbol for junk, a bond fund ETF, go to yahoo finance, type in JNK where it says stock symbol and review the chart for 2013.
start:
part 1; junk bonds as an investment
by Professor Ickes
Gifford on line university
finance 101
Wake up students bond investing is sexy: Junk bonds as an investment, by using the ETF "JNK".
We will tackle treasuries and corporate bonds next class period.
JNK will fool a man every time. In time an investor always catches her sneaking home at 9AM hung over and disheveled of hair, with a torn blouse and her skirt on backwards; then he realizes poor old junk is just a trashy girl.
JNK is common and tries to hide her fallen nature by disguising her real self by offering higher yields and more special features than other self respecting ladies like corporate bonds or government treasuries, who are proper but a might predictable and boring. JNK is a fallen angel who never should be discussed with Mothers, widows or orphans either.
JNK is really a colloquialism, just plain trash, she's junk the debt instruments of company's bonds, issued by American businesses that have gotten in trouble and lost their reputations. No self respecting church pension fund or school system should invest in JNK or any bond ETF for that matter. We will discuss ETF's later.
Still there is something enticing about junk bonds. Whole Countries who have lost their good standing can issue high yield junk bonds. Greek debt in 2010, winking looking back across their shoulder an investment for those so inclined and even the shy Portuguese in 2011 shrugging their collective shoulders and demurely lowering their dark eyes some times must sell junk bonds on the world markets.
Michael Milken made a fortune and changed the way American investors valued junk bonds and changed the modern world. Now Milken is barred from working on wall street for life. Milken was called a gangster and racketeer and instead now does humanitarian work. He's a member of the admired rich and famous now, a revered philanthropist. Black and Scholes won a Nobel prize for telling traders how to definitely price bonds. Later Scholes got bitten in the butt by their financial model and plunged the world into financial meltdown a couple of times.
This author met Myron Scholes; he was smart and polite but not especially contrite for all the mischief he helped bring about.
Don't understand bond ETF's, bond derivatives and futures and the Black Sholes pricing model? Rest assured someday someone who does understand all that, working at a Big bank, will call you and will patiently explain why the fixed rate on your mortgage just jumped up 300 basis points because of a pending default in Portugal. He might offer to make it easier for you to understand interest rate fluctuations by using the Black Scholes equation. It's simple really;
disclaimer by author;
if JNK is a real lady, alas I haven't met her and don't know her.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Merry Christmas to my nephew Steve
reader:
JNK is the market symbol for junk, a bond fund ETF, go to yahoo finance, type in JNK where it says stock symbol and review the chart for 2013.
start:
part 1; junk bonds as an investment
by Professor Ickes
Gifford on line university
finance 101
Wake up students bond investing is sexy: Junk bonds as an investment, by using the ETF "JNK".
We will tackle treasuries and corporate bonds next class period.
JNK will fool a man every time. In time an investor always catches her sneaking home at 9AM hung over and disheveled of hair, with a torn blouse and her skirt on backwards; then he realizes poor old junk is just a trashy girl.
JNK is common and tries to hide her fallen nature by disguising her real self by offering higher yields and more special features than other self respecting ladies like corporate bonds or government treasuries, who are proper but a might predictable and boring. JNK is a fallen angel who never should be discussed with Mothers, widows or orphans either.
JNK is really a colloquialism, just plain trash, she's junk the debt instruments of company's bonds, issued by American businesses that have gotten in trouble and lost their reputations. No self respecting church pension fund or school system should invest in JNK or any bond ETF for that matter. We will discuss ETF's later.
Still there is something enticing about junk bonds. Whole Countries who have lost their good standing can issue high yield junk bonds. Greek debt in 2010, winking looking back across their shoulder an investment for those so inclined and even the shy Portuguese in 2011 shrugging their collective shoulders and demurely lowering their dark eyes some times must sell junk bonds on the world markets.
Michael Milken made a fortune and changed the way American investors valued junk bonds and changed the modern world. Now Milken is barred from working on wall street for life. Milken was called a gangster and racketeer and instead now does humanitarian work. He's a member of the admired rich and famous now, a revered philanthropist. Black and Scholes won a Nobel prize for telling traders how to definitely price bonds. Later Scholes got bitten in the butt by their financial model and plunged the world into financial meltdown a couple of times.
This author met Myron Scholes; he was smart and polite but not especially contrite for all the mischief he helped bring about.
Don't understand bond ETF's, bond derivatives and futures and the Black Sholes pricing model? Rest assured someday someone who does understand all that, working at a Big bank, will call you and will patiently explain why the fixed rate on your mortgage just jumped up 300 basis points because of a pending default in Portugal. He might offer to make it easier for you to understand interest rate fluctuations by using the Black Scholes equation. It's simple really;
disclaimer by author;
if JNK is a real lady, alas I haven't met her and don't know her.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
tom jones and david crosby
tom jones and david crosby
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Check it out on you tube. Tom Jones' show and he is singing " Long Time Gone' with musical guests Crosby Stills and Nash. Neil Young is there too but despite his genius and talent is too high to tell what is going on temporarily. Tom Jones the son of a Welsh coal miner is crooning " speak out against the madness" a period piece protest song. David Crosby is looking on bemused and a mite judgmental. All on stage are great musicians.
Tom Jones lives in Los Angles now, likes the ladies immensely, has been married to his wife since 1957, and returns to Britain from time to time.
David Crosby of American aristocracy gets in trouble a lot but is very loveable and forgiven over and over by his fans and fellow musicians.
Neil Young is Canadian but Americans south of the mason Dixon will never forgive him for writing "southern man" although it is a great song show casing guitar as performed by Crosby Stills Nash and Young extended session.
It's on you tube. Follow all rules and on line etiquette before and during watching.
PS don't be judgmental
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Check it out on you tube. Tom Jones' show and he is singing " Long Time Gone' with musical guests Crosby Stills and Nash. Neil Young is there too but despite his genius and talent is too high to tell what is going on temporarily. Tom Jones the son of a Welsh coal miner is crooning " speak out against the madness" a period piece protest song. David Crosby is looking on bemused and a mite judgmental. All on stage are great musicians.
Tom Jones lives in Los Angles now, likes the ladies immensely, has been married to his wife since 1957, and returns to Britain from time to time.
David Crosby of American aristocracy gets in trouble a lot but is very loveable and forgiven over and over by his fans and fellow musicians.
Neil Young is Canadian but Americans south of the mason Dixon will never forgive him for writing "southern man" although it is a great song show casing guitar as performed by Crosby Stills Nash and Young extended session.
It's on you tube. Follow all rules and on line etiquette before and during watching.
PS don't be judgmental
surronded by atomic weapons/ part 1
surrounded by atomic weapons
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
No matter what is said about the security of still being surrounded by atomic weapons it is difficult to adjust to my move from Russia to the United States. As an example there are dozens of kinds of Vodka in America but few people can afford to drink it. In Russia no matter how poor and without cash we were we could wash away our sorrows with glass after glass of cheap world quality Vodka.
There is plenty to do in America to fill up your time. You can walk and walk around the stores looking and wishing about things you can't afford to buy. In Russia what you don't need is never presented to you; here in America you are deluged with advertisements and exposure to expensive items. Items abound that you are slowly taught to want and dream about but will never afford here in America. Every few weeks there is another important Holiday that require everyone to buy their few friends expensive presents. Also each Holiday requires it's unique colors and decorations to be purchased. Red white and blue for July 4, orange at Halloween and red and gold for Christmas. I like Halloween best for the American women wear shear costumes and walk about dressed naughtily for a few weeks.
In Russia beautiful women walk around in the cold heavily dressed dreaming of owning a fine new America style automobile. In America you drive about in a fine American auto that is very old and in need of overhaul. The brakes are shot and the suspension is sagging. Policeman stop you routinely to check your mandatory requirements to drive. Car insurance, proper racial profile, and appropriate attitude. Usually the American police are very polite once they have called in your license to headquarters and you pass the profiled background screen. In Russia you are seldom stopped but if you are it's trouble of a serious nature. In America if you are non moving violation traffic stopped you receive warning to bring your vehicle up to code with expensive repairs to the check engine light system at an auto dealership. While at the dealership you watch cable tv ads for new vehicles you can't afford. Car repairs are an important part of the American economy and as the road fleet of American cars ages the American police do what they can to insure that Americans spend a substantial portion of their meager incomes on auto related items. Auto insurance is mandatory in America and you can be sentenced to prison if you have expired insurance during a traffic frisk and if you have outstanding court fees and are the wrong racial profile. The American economy is a marvel of intricate inner working procedures that insure the world's highest gross standard of living. Policemen are paid and accrue retirement benefits properly only if the American economy produces a 3% or higher GDP growth. Of course most people as individuals don't enjoy that highest standard of living in America but they are content because they know it's their own fault for not being properly educated and not working hard enough and not making proper investments in timely financial derivatives or bond ETF futures. Everyone in America believes they have equal access to the top tier of economic prosperity, to not believe such is to have a bad attitude and is labeled un Amerikan. A very bad state to be in.
In America individuals have rights. Individuals have rights because by their mere existence as consuming individuals American citizens provide the means of keeping everybody else working and prospering. At least that's how it's supposed to work. Every American citizen is allowed access to all the fine luxury goods made in America, and there are magazines full of luxury items. Each magazine advertises page after page of the required accoutrements required for American life. For men expensive gym memberships to chisel the abs and for women $2,000 leather purses to carry their money in and credit cards in. Women are not allowed to be overweight in America, not by law but by custom. Weight sanction in America against women is enforced by celebrities who are thin by nature. Now and then American magazines or digital ads show American women a diminutive celebrity such as Kelly Ripa who was born to always be 5' 0, 95 lbs and has had chiseled abs since she was a cheerleader in junior high and later College.
I am adjusting to my moving to America and I appreciate the many opportunities living in America provides me. Although I have never seen any of the Atomic weapons that keep me safe here in Amerika I am sleeping well knowing they are near. Also I have marked my digital on line calendar for Halloween to see what kind of skimpy orange costume Kelly Ripa will wear on American television. Of course I don't have expensive American cable but I can go to the car dealership and watch her while I have my check engine light checked next Fall.
Now if I can only adjust to missing good Russian Vodka.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
No matter what is said about the security of still being surrounded by atomic weapons it is difficult to adjust to my move from Russia to the United States. As an example there are dozens of kinds of Vodka in America but few people can afford to drink it. In Russia no matter how poor and without cash we were we could wash away our sorrows with glass after glass of cheap world quality Vodka.
There is plenty to do in America to fill up your time. You can walk and walk around the stores looking and wishing about things you can't afford to buy. In Russia what you don't need is never presented to you; here in America you are deluged with advertisements and exposure to expensive items. Items abound that you are slowly taught to want and dream about but will never afford here in America. Every few weeks there is another important Holiday that require everyone to buy their few friends expensive presents. Also each Holiday requires it's unique colors and decorations to be purchased. Red white and blue for July 4, orange at Halloween and red and gold for Christmas. I like Halloween best for the American women wear shear costumes and walk about dressed naughtily for a few weeks.
In Russia beautiful women walk around in the cold heavily dressed dreaming of owning a fine new America style automobile. In America you drive about in a fine American auto that is very old and in need of overhaul. The brakes are shot and the suspension is sagging. Policeman stop you routinely to check your mandatory requirements to drive. Car insurance, proper racial profile, and appropriate attitude. Usually the American police are very polite once they have called in your license to headquarters and you pass the profiled background screen. In Russia you are seldom stopped but if you are it's trouble of a serious nature. In America if you are non moving violation traffic stopped you receive warning to bring your vehicle up to code with expensive repairs to the check engine light system at an auto dealership. While at the dealership you watch cable tv ads for new vehicles you can't afford. Car repairs are an important part of the American economy and as the road fleet of American cars ages the American police do what they can to insure that Americans spend a substantial portion of their meager incomes on auto related items. Auto insurance is mandatory in America and you can be sentenced to prison if you have expired insurance during a traffic frisk and if you have outstanding court fees and are the wrong racial profile. The American economy is a marvel of intricate inner working procedures that insure the world's highest gross standard of living. Policemen are paid and accrue retirement benefits properly only if the American economy produces a 3% or higher GDP growth. Of course most people as individuals don't enjoy that highest standard of living in America but they are content because they know it's their own fault for not being properly educated and not working hard enough and not making proper investments in timely financial derivatives or bond ETF futures. Everyone in America believes they have equal access to the top tier of economic prosperity, to not believe such is to have a bad attitude and is labeled un Amerikan. A very bad state to be in.
In America individuals have rights. Individuals have rights because by their mere existence as consuming individuals American citizens provide the means of keeping everybody else working and prospering. At least that's how it's supposed to work. Every American citizen is allowed access to all the fine luxury goods made in America, and there are magazines full of luxury items. Each magazine advertises page after page of the required accoutrements required for American life. For men expensive gym memberships to chisel the abs and for women $2,000 leather purses to carry their money in and credit cards in. Women are not allowed to be overweight in America, not by law but by custom. Weight sanction in America against women is enforced by celebrities who are thin by nature. Now and then American magazines or digital ads show American women a diminutive celebrity such as Kelly Ripa who was born to always be 5' 0, 95 lbs and has had chiseled abs since she was a cheerleader in junior high and later College.
I am adjusting to my moving to America and I appreciate the many opportunities living in America provides me. Although I have never seen any of the Atomic weapons that keep me safe here in Amerika I am sleeping well knowing they are near. Also I have marked my digital on line calendar for Halloween to see what kind of skimpy orange costume Kelly Ripa will wear on American television. Of course I don't have expensive American cable but I can go to the car dealership and watch her while I have my check engine light checked next Fall.
Now if I can only adjust to missing good Russian Vodka.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
reincarnation and friendship
Reincarnation and friendship
fiction
Edward w pritchard
reposted and edited/ previously "Junko partner goes Nepalese"
start
the stalker was once the revered lover who was gently chased
the lover was once the loyal friend bringing rice and tea
the friend was once the ideal listening intently to scientific explanations
the ideal was once the self safe and solid
the self was once the selfless timeless and eternal
the selfless reintegrates the self, the lover, and the stalker
reintegrated we share rice and tea and scientific explanations.
fiction
Edward w pritchard
reposted and edited/ previously "Junko partner goes Nepalese"
start
the stalker was once the revered lover who was gently chased
the lover was once the loyal friend bringing rice and tea
the friend was once the ideal listening intently to scientific explanations
the ideal was once the self safe and solid
the self was once the selfless timeless and eternal
the selfless reintegrates the self, the lover, and the stalker
reintegrated we share rice and tea and scientific explanations.
I the universal soldier/ draft 2
I the universal soldier/ draft 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
soldier-draft one/ repost, edit
Me a soldier. More than anything I wish to die in battle or like my hero Vincent Van Gogh go crazy. No such luck, I have survived over a dozen fierce battles and engagements. Early on when our blitzkrieg was remarkably successful I would not have been surprised to be unscathed but now the war goes badly and still I thrive as a soldier. I hate what we do but I fight and do my duty not to Fatherland but to my unit. I am not of the party but I fight on although the goals not be mine.
My Father himself will not hear me when I explain the Nazi machine. He is Prussian through and through, still quoting Hegel when he doesn't have a mouthful of platitudes. His wars were brutal yes, but not unspeakable, even to a fellow soldier. I cannot speak to him of ordinary things we do and I cannot think even to myself what I have witnessed. In spite of that my mind is clear; each morning I awake and I prepare for the days actions and encounters. Military life is easy for me though I hate it and hate myself for being part of.
I am as a cog in a machine, one piece in the military system of weapons and technology. I am not permitted to not function at peak capacity. I also cannot allow myself to quit, run or injure or terminate myself. My mind will not fracture or dis-join. My logic is clear and worse my luck is remarkable. Each day I wake and prepare dutifully for today's battles despite my conscious.
I am the universal metaphorical soldier and each day I awake, leave my tent and attack my life with military zeal although I do not understand why we are supposed to fight on anymore.
end
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
soldier-draft one/ repost, edit
Me a soldier. More than anything I wish to die in battle or like my hero Vincent Van Gogh go crazy. No such luck, I have survived over a dozen fierce battles and engagements. Early on when our blitzkrieg was remarkably successful I would not have been surprised to be unscathed but now the war goes badly and still I thrive as a soldier. I hate what we do but I fight and do my duty not to Fatherland but to my unit. I am not of the party but I fight on although the goals not be mine.
My Father himself will not hear me when I explain the Nazi machine. He is Prussian through and through, still quoting Hegel when he doesn't have a mouthful of platitudes. His wars were brutal yes, but not unspeakable, even to a fellow soldier. I cannot speak to him of ordinary things we do and I cannot think even to myself what I have witnessed. In spite of that my mind is clear; each morning I awake and I prepare for the days actions and encounters. Military life is easy for me though I hate it and hate myself for being part of.
I am as a cog in a machine, one piece in the military system of weapons and technology. I am not permitted to not function at peak capacity. I also cannot allow myself to quit, run or injure or terminate myself. My mind will not fracture or dis-join. My logic is clear and worse my luck is remarkable. Each day I wake and prepare dutifully for today's battles despite my conscious.
I am the universal metaphorical soldier and each day I awake, leave my tent and attack my life with military zeal although I do not understand why we are supposed to fight on anymore.
end
the last cannonical victim of Jack the ripper
the last canonical victim of Jack the Ripper
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Who is Mary Jane Kelly really that this author is writing about for the third time? Is she simply mary jane a plant that once was rolled up and smoked? Or, is Mary Jane Kelly all men's passive aggressive passions exploded towards the women in their lives?
start/ repost #3, edited
blue blooded friend, Jack the ripper's last victim; Mary Jane Kelly
Author's note-Did Jack the Ripper know his final victim of five, who he brutally ripped, stabbed and tore apart and strung her about? Mary Jane Kelly was the only ripper victim killed inside. Author surmises yes Jack did know Mary Jane Kelly. Jack the Ripper speaks why he killed Mary Jane Kelly in such a shocking brutal fashion in her small apartment there in White Chapel in 19th century London, England.
When I looked into it, I came to realize that Mary Jane Kelly was just feeling superior to me. I didn't realize why at first, for I still felt the same way about her.
Upon reflection I found Mary Jane to be made up of layer upon layer of blue crumbly sheets of metallic marbling. She wasn't at all like I had come to know her as.
When I took action and took Mary Jane apart there was no heart inside of her only stratified dried out hollow tubes of purport masquerading as flesh and blood. A mess I know; but not a blue blood.
Still, Mary Jane is contagious for a hollow dross sleeps in me because of her. Sometimes I dream of Mary Jane and wish she was still here to provide me comfort and be near when I need her.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Who is Mary Jane Kelly really that this author is writing about for the third time? Is she simply mary jane a plant that once was rolled up and smoked? Or, is Mary Jane Kelly all men's passive aggressive passions exploded towards the women in their lives?
start/ repost #3, edited
blue blooded friend, Jack the ripper's last victim; Mary Jane Kelly
Author's note-Did Jack the Ripper know his final victim of five, who he brutally ripped, stabbed and tore apart and strung her about? Mary Jane Kelly was the only ripper victim killed inside. Author surmises yes Jack did know Mary Jane Kelly. Jack the Ripper speaks why he killed Mary Jane Kelly in such a shocking brutal fashion in her small apartment there in White Chapel in 19th century London, England.
When I looked into it, I came to realize that Mary Jane Kelly was just feeling superior to me. I didn't realize why at first, for I still felt the same way about her.
Upon reflection I found Mary Jane to be made up of layer upon layer of blue crumbly sheets of metallic marbling. She wasn't at all like I had come to know her as.
When I took action and took Mary Jane apart there was no heart inside of her only stratified dried out hollow tubes of purport masquerading as flesh and blood. A mess I know; but not a blue blood.
Still, Mary Jane is contagious for a hollow dross sleeps in me because of her. Sometimes I dream of Mary Jane and wish she was still here to provide me comfort and be near when I need her.
probabilities are not probable today/ draft one
probabilities are not probable today/ draft one
fiction
edward w pritchard
I sat in front of the device and studied it, trying to relax. It was simply constructed for such an important device. Two shiny metal circular thin rods held eighty samples of fine cloth. Most of the cloths were different color and textures. One flipped the cloth samples along the metal rods until one found one to peruse. The cloths represented character flaws a person could be born with. The expression "cut from the same cloth" is a racial memory of the 80 character combinations.
The cloths represented all the possible combinations a persons character could be composed of, but no person's character contained more than twenty character flaws. Eighty possibilities of character combination but only twenty were allotted to each person at birth. From those twenty character combinations a persons nature and potential were cut. The device containing the 80 cloth samples was sitting on a table in front of me in Hell. I was taking a test to see if I stayed in Hell for Eternity or was able to transfer to Heaven. I would flip the cloths four, five, six then seven times and all I had to do was to hit the appropriate number for each numbered test without stopping at a character fault I possessed.
For my first test I had to randomly pick twenty pieces of cloth as my sample group. From the twenty I had to first pick four that represented character faults a person could have. I had to pick four possible character faults, and then most important they had to be character faults I did not have. If I picked four of twenty without a hit I moved on to the next stage of the test.
I had chosen four of twenty with the clerk in section four when I first arrived here in Hell. It's not uncommon to pick four of twenty and I was allowed to choose again in a few minutes in section three. I was choosing to see if I could not be assigned to Hell for eternity.
I was sent to section three next. I have to trust them here in Hell that they don't mess with the original twenty samples of cloth I pick from. The man in section three here in Hell is very officious. He goes through a lot of procedures before he lets me choose five samples. You have to hit five of twenty to survive section three. I did. He was upset with me but now I move to section two.
There are two clerks and a supervisor in section two. A woman supervisor is all business here and she is very strict with the two people working for her. I picked five of the first ten. Although it wasn't until the twentieth pick that I hit the magic number six. Now I sit before the Devil himself in section 1.
It's unlikely that I don't have any of the character flaws in the sample of twenty I selected at random. I just have been very lucky so far.
The Devil tries to bargain with me instead of letting me pick. The devil tries to jinx me when I refuse to bargain. I need to pick seven character flaws out of a random sample of twenty to be able to leave hell and never return. The Devil offers me his final deal, twenty more years of life on Earth before I have to return for Eternity to Hell if I forgo my pick in section 1. Can I pick seven character faults from a sample of twenty that I don't have even one of?
I took the Devil's bargain. Twenty more years of life on Earth and then eternity in Hell. As I was leaving Hell to return to Earth the Devil gave me a free pick. I stopped at the cloth of altruism. Is that a character fault or just not a valuable part of one's nature to be born with? Maybe I find out in my next twenty years on Earth.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I sat in front of the device and studied it, trying to relax. It was simply constructed for such an important device. Two shiny metal circular thin rods held eighty samples of fine cloth. Most of the cloths were different color and textures. One flipped the cloth samples along the metal rods until one found one to peruse. The cloths represented character flaws a person could be born with. The expression "cut from the same cloth" is a racial memory of the 80 character combinations.
The cloths represented all the possible combinations a persons character could be composed of, but no person's character contained more than twenty character flaws. Eighty possibilities of character combination but only twenty were allotted to each person at birth. From those twenty character combinations a persons nature and potential were cut. The device containing the 80 cloth samples was sitting on a table in front of me in Hell. I was taking a test to see if I stayed in Hell for Eternity or was able to transfer to Heaven. I would flip the cloths four, five, six then seven times and all I had to do was to hit the appropriate number for each numbered test without stopping at a character fault I possessed.
For my first test I had to randomly pick twenty pieces of cloth as my sample group. From the twenty I had to first pick four that represented character faults a person could have. I had to pick four possible character faults, and then most important they had to be character faults I did not have. If I picked four of twenty without a hit I moved on to the next stage of the test.
I had chosen four of twenty with the clerk in section four when I first arrived here in Hell. It's not uncommon to pick four of twenty and I was allowed to choose again in a few minutes in section three. I was choosing to see if I could not be assigned to Hell for eternity.
I was sent to section three next. I have to trust them here in Hell that they don't mess with the original twenty samples of cloth I pick from. The man in section three here in Hell is very officious. He goes through a lot of procedures before he lets me choose five samples. You have to hit five of twenty to survive section three. I did. He was upset with me but now I move to section two.
There are two clerks and a supervisor in section two. A woman supervisor is all business here and she is very strict with the two people working for her. I picked five of the first ten. Although it wasn't until the twentieth pick that I hit the magic number six. Now I sit before the Devil himself in section 1.
It's unlikely that I don't have any of the character flaws in the sample of twenty I selected at random. I just have been very lucky so far.
The Devil tries to bargain with me instead of letting me pick. The devil tries to jinx me when I refuse to bargain. I need to pick seven character flaws out of a random sample of twenty to be able to leave hell and never return. The Devil offers me his final deal, twenty more years of life on Earth before I have to return for Eternity to Hell if I forgo my pick in section 1. Can I pick seven character faults from a sample of twenty that I don't have even one of?
I took the Devil's bargain. Twenty more years of life on Earth and then eternity in Hell. As I was leaving Hell to return to Earth the Devil gave me a free pick. I stopped at the cloth of altruism. Is that a character fault or just not a valuable part of one's nature to be born with? Maybe I find out in my next twenty years on Earth.
all things old pass away
all things old pass away
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I took an old fashion bus tour of the city I grew up in. Down main street at street level.
The bus was surprisingly full, new immigrants were coming in from other States to live here because of the cheap rent and low costs of living. Of course it was very run down. High crime and life was pathetic as it always is for poor people in a place where time has moved on but those who live there don't know it. Everyone living on main street is stuck in the dead Past.
The action is high above. Hundreds and hundreds of hover crafts and Drones of all classes dart over our old Main street at five hundred feet. Air bound comfort stations and even a few flying malls are where the action is in our City. The old Main street where businesses thrived a hundred years ago are stuck in the past. Up at five hundred feet people and machines just passing through our City sometimes stop at one of the comfort station to gamble or have an energy meal.
When you take a bus tour they give you a booklet that lists all the building for sale. For two hundred thousands old script dollars you can buy any one of them. Then you can rent out to two new immigrant families to a room in the stores and business that used to line old main street. If you are a Lawyer and you can do all the paperwork required by zoning and environmental regulations and you can collect rents with a heavy hand you might make a small profit by being a slum landlord on old Main Street.
As you ride on the bus you look up and see hundreds of Real estate for Sale signs. Most of the signs are old fashion bill board type. They fade in a filtered sun light that drifts down from the floating buildings and platforms five hundred feet above. Out of towners, owners living far away, who are of Deed to the dilapidated buildings at street level on Main street pay real estate jobbers a small weekly fee to keep vandals from removing the signs. The chemicals in the paint the old signs are painted with are worth a couple of days wages over at the recycling plant.
The old paint on the signs is valuable too because painted surfaces are protected by restoration laws. New paint is very expensive and old painted words and slogans are grandfathered so humans living below five hundred feet can still read things in the ancient script. All new messages are electronic dash at five hundred feet.
It smells on the old bus. Vagrants ride around on the main street tour because Real Estate companies sometimes provide free food to riders trying desperately to sell the old buildings for their clients. Regulations protect vagrants; they cannot be thrown off the tours just because they obviously are too poor to buy anything.
I still enjoyed the old bus tour of the place I grew up in. It was nice to visit the past. I never feel comfortable being in the digital age where machines and drones control all the commercial activity. All things old pass away but I for one like to see old things sometimes to remind me of when people were at the top of the food chain. Down on main street, before life was lived at five hundred feet above the ground and before all new advertisements were digital.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I took an old fashion bus tour of the city I grew up in. Down main street at street level.
The bus was surprisingly full, new immigrants were coming in from other States to live here because of the cheap rent and low costs of living. Of course it was very run down. High crime and life was pathetic as it always is for poor people in a place where time has moved on but those who live there don't know it. Everyone living on main street is stuck in the dead Past.
The action is high above. Hundreds and hundreds of hover crafts and Drones of all classes dart over our old Main street at five hundred feet. Air bound comfort stations and even a few flying malls are where the action is in our City. The old Main street where businesses thrived a hundred years ago are stuck in the past. Up at five hundred feet people and machines just passing through our City sometimes stop at one of the comfort station to gamble or have an energy meal.
When you take a bus tour they give you a booklet that lists all the building for sale. For two hundred thousands old script dollars you can buy any one of them. Then you can rent out to two new immigrant families to a room in the stores and business that used to line old main street. If you are a Lawyer and you can do all the paperwork required by zoning and environmental regulations and you can collect rents with a heavy hand you might make a small profit by being a slum landlord on old Main Street.
As you ride on the bus you look up and see hundreds of Real estate for Sale signs. Most of the signs are old fashion bill board type. They fade in a filtered sun light that drifts down from the floating buildings and platforms five hundred feet above. Out of towners, owners living far away, who are of Deed to the dilapidated buildings at street level on Main street pay real estate jobbers a small weekly fee to keep vandals from removing the signs. The chemicals in the paint the old signs are painted with are worth a couple of days wages over at the recycling plant.
The old paint on the signs is valuable too because painted surfaces are protected by restoration laws. New paint is very expensive and old painted words and slogans are grandfathered so humans living below five hundred feet can still read things in the ancient script. All new messages are electronic dash at five hundred feet.
It smells on the old bus. Vagrants ride around on the main street tour because Real Estate companies sometimes provide free food to riders trying desperately to sell the old buildings for their clients. Regulations protect vagrants; they cannot be thrown off the tours just because they obviously are too poor to buy anything.
I still enjoyed the old bus tour of the place I grew up in. It was nice to visit the past. I never feel comfortable being in the digital age where machines and drones control all the commercial activity. All things old pass away but I for one like to see old things sometimes to remind me of when people were at the top of the food chain. Down on main street, before life was lived at five hundred feet above the ground and before all new advertisements were digital.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
another girl in the closet
another girl in the closet
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Melvin awoke hating the thought of recording another music video requiring him to pretend to play his guitar. It was the hardest part of being a famous musician. Looking ecstatic while frantically pretending to strum and play a buzzing throbbing electric guitar usually ended up with Melvin looking foolish, something he hated. Melvin had to record at four this afternoon.
Waking in his old farm house in the Country Melvin knew he had slept late into the morning. That was a nice thing about being rich, he could get up whenever he wanted. He didn't live back in Missouri anymore on the cattle ranch with his parents.
The sun was warm through the east window curtains and for a long while Melvin kept the blankets pulled up to his chin and looked at the blue sky through the sunny window. At length the traffic over on the distant highway began to annoy him and Melvin decided to get up out of his warm bed. The old house was cold this bright winter morning.
Turning his head toward the bedroom door Melvin discovered how bad his morning headache was today. He had been drinking last night but this was no ordinary hangover headache. Looking toward the open closet door Melvin saw why his headache was unusual today.
There was a blond girl laying on the floor of the closet. For a brief moment Melvin hoped she was alive. Then knowing his history and remembering last night he began to plan what to do with the body this cold winter day. He had to record at 4pm today so he had to get busy.
Melvin laid a blanket over the dead girl. He covered the face. It was a pretty face, young with blond hair. She looked peaceful laying folded like that in the closet among his recording costumes. On a whim he put a small pillow under her head to lift her head off the floor. He moved his paired shoes a little to the right to get them out of her face.
It was hard to move about for it was usual for Melvin to have a terrible headache after he had murdered. Marvin searched the entire house. He had killed no other women.
Melvin wrapped the body in the green tarp and used the large wheelbarrow to move the stiffening corpse back to the horse barn. As usual the horses raced to the back pasture. They always knew what he was up to. The green tarp was a little too small, he would have to buy more later, he had been cutting tarp and burying dead girls a lot lately. As he became more famous and in demand Melvin needed to kill more and more girls who came home with him to see his farm.
Finally the burying was done, breakfast was finished, the closet was cleaned up and Melvin had to pick his costume for today's recording session. Melvin hated it when he had to pretend to play his guitar in a music video. He always managed to look stupid jumping about frantically pounding at his electric guitar.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Melvin awoke hating the thought of recording another music video requiring him to pretend to play his guitar. It was the hardest part of being a famous musician. Looking ecstatic while frantically pretending to strum and play a buzzing throbbing electric guitar usually ended up with Melvin looking foolish, something he hated. Melvin had to record at four this afternoon.
Waking in his old farm house in the Country Melvin knew he had slept late into the morning. That was a nice thing about being rich, he could get up whenever he wanted. He didn't live back in Missouri anymore on the cattle ranch with his parents.
The sun was warm through the east window curtains and for a long while Melvin kept the blankets pulled up to his chin and looked at the blue sky through the sunny window. At length the traffic over on the distant highway began to annoy him and Melvin decided to get up out of his warm bed. The old house was cold this bright winter morning.
Turning his head toward the bedroom door Melvin discovered how bad his morning headache was today. He had been drinking last night but this was no ordinary hangover headache. Looking toward the open closet door Melvin saw why his headache was unusual today.
There was a blond girl laying on the floor of the closet. For a brief moment Melvin hoped she was alive. Then knowing his history and remembering last night he began to plan what to do with the body this cold winter day. He had to record at 4pm today so he had to get busy.
Melvin laid a blanket over the dead girl. He covered the face. It was a pretty face, young with blond hair. She looked peaceful laying folded like that in the closet among his recording costumes. On a whim he put a small pillow under her head to lift her head off the floor. He moved his paired shoes a little to the right to get them out of her face.
It was hard to move about for it was usual for Melvin to have a terrible headache after he had murdered. Marvin searched the entire house. He had killed no other women.
Melvin wrapped the body in the green tarp and used the large wheelbarrow to move the stiffening corpse back to the horse barn. As usual the horses raced to the back pasture. They always knew what he was up to. The green tarp was a little too small, he would have to buy more later, he had been cutting tarp and burying dead girls a lot lately. As he became more famous and in demand Melvin needed to kill more and more girls who came home with him to see his farm.
Finally the burying was done, breakfast was finished, the closet was cleaned up and Melvin had to pick his costume for today's recording session. Melvin hated it when he had to pretend to play his guitar in a music video. He always managed to look stupid jumping about frantically pounding at his electric guitar.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Are there multiple universes?
Are there multiple universes?
repost/ edit
Rolling up the Fabric of Time
fiction
edward w Pritchard
A policeman is doing the part of his job he likes least. There has been a car accident and a little girl of about four has been seriously injured and she well may die on her way to the hospital in the racing ambulance.
As the policeman is measuring the skid marks for his accident report he finds a pink girls tennis shoe near where the skidding and rolling car involved in the accident came to a rest. Carefully picking up the small shoe the policeman notices blood near the ankle opening of the shoe. Solemnly the policeman picks up the pink stained tennis shoe and respectfully places the shoe on the rear mat in the back seat passengers side of his police car; the policeman cannot stomach the thought of traveling back to the station with the lonely shoe on the front passengers seat.
Much, much later and far away God is rolling up the fabric of time. God is rolling up sharp brittle strands of barb wire into large bundles. Sniping the wire with sharp powerful shears, God manipulates the bundles of barb wire, previously the fabric of Time, into slightly unmanageable bundles. God carefully lays the bundles aside for later collection and review.
A large powerful patient horse walks with God as God goes about his Work of rolling up the fabric of Time. The horse sees God pause in his duties and the horse surmises that God has again snagged his fingers on the sharp barbs of the barbed wire. Watching intently the horse notices God pick up a pink girl's tennis shoe entangled in the wire. It is unusual for a material object to remain in the fabric of Time and both God and the horse take note of the pink shoe with a little blood at the ankle.
Generally material things decompose quickly in the fabric of time. Solemnly and respectfully God stops with the rolling of the wire and gently places the shoe in the rear pocket of his faded blue jeans. God's mind races forward to eternity and then simultaneously back to the car accident with the injured four year old girl. God sighs as he feels the policeman pick up the bloody pink shoe far back in the fabric of time and as he sighs God creates a far off universe anew.
In the new universe God has just created the four year old girl with the pink tennis shoe was not traveling in a skidding and rolling car involved in an accident and a policeman did not put a bloody pink size four tennis shoe on the rear seat passengers side floor as he sadly drove to the station.
God places his strong left hand on the white horses powerful shoulder as both smile a little and think of the little girl far away and long ago living a long uneventful life. Both God and the large white horse return to their work of rolling up the fabric of Time and bundling the rolls of Time for later collection and review.
repost/ edit
Rolling up the Fabric of Time
fiction
edward w Pritchard
A policeman is doing the part of his job he likes least. There has been a car accident and a little girl of about four has been seriously injured and she well may die on her way to the hospital in the racing ambulance.
As the policeman is measuring the skid marks for his accident report he finds a pink girls tennis shoe near where the skidding and rolling car involved in the accident came to a rest. Carefully picking up the small shoe the policeman notices blood near the ankle opening of the shoe. Solemnly the policeman picks up the pink stained tennis shoe and respectfully places the shoe on the rear mat in the back seat passengers side of his police car; the policeman cannot stomach the thought of traveling back to the station with the lonely shoe on the front passengers seat.
Much, much later and far away God is rolling up the fabric of time. God is rolling up sharp brittle strands of barb wire into large bundles. Sniping the wire with sharp powerful shears, God manipulates the bundles of barb wire, previously the fabric of Time, into slightly unmanageable bundles. God carefully lays the bundles aside for later collection and review.
A large powerful patient horse walks with God as God goes about his Work of rolling up the fabric of Time. The horse sees God pause in his duties and the horse surmises that God has again snagged his fingers on the sharp barbs of the barbed wire. Watching intently the horse notices God pick up a pink girl's tennis shoe entangled in the wire. It is unusual for a material object to remain in the fabric of Time and both God and the horse take note of the pink shoe with a little blood at the ankle.
Generally material things decompose quickly in the fabric of time. Solemnly and respectfully God stops with the rolling of the wire and gently places the shoe in the rear pocket of his faded blue jeans. God's mind races forward to eternity and then simultaneously back to the car accident with the injured four year old girl. God sighs as he feels the policeman pick up the bloody pink shoe far back in the fabric of time and as he sighs God creates a far off universe anew.
In the new universe God has just created the four year old girl with the pink tennis shoe was not traveling in a skidding and rolling car involved in an accident and a policeman did not put a bloody pink size four tennis shoe on the rear seat passengers side floor as he sadly drove to the station.
God places his strong left hand on the white horses powerful shoulder as both smile a little and think of the little girl far away and long ago living a long uneventful life. Both God and the large white horse return to their work of rolling up the fabric of Time and bundling the rolls of Time for later collection and review.
Don't text me goodbye Molly/ part 2
Don't text me goodbye Molly/ part 2
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Molly, I found a key from the outside key cutting kiosk at Sears on the floor in the garage. You must have dropped it. It's a cheap silver key that says CRL 5 on the top, it's old and overused.
I traced the key to Sears from the Internet. You hate Sears Molly. That key must look awful tacky in your Red Leather purse I bought you last Christmas. The key is used at the Breezeway apartment complex I guess.
I was hoping the key was to a closet at Highland Junior High where you teach or the storage room at the gym where you coach badminton. Nice job with your coaching 7 wins and two losses. I am proud of you Molly.
I took the key to the Breezeway apartments where he lives. I tried the key in the door. It fits but I didn't go inside. I just had to know. I saw your car there last Friday night at 11;30PM.
The tires on your Honda are getting a little worn. I could take the car into to Smith's Tire and have them rotated. Maybe we could trade cars for one day. You could call me.
It's hard for me to get anything done when I keep looking at my cell phone for a text from you Molly. I am afraid things might have went too far and you will be sending me that text you yelled at me about.
Don't text me good-bye Molly.
love
bob
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Molly, I found a key from the outside key cutting kiosk at Sears on the floor in the garage. You must have dropped it. It's a cheap silver key that says CRL 5 on the top, it's old and overused.
I traced the key to Sears from the Internet. You hate Sears Molly. That key must look awful tacky in your Red Leather purse I bought you last Christmas. The key is used at the Breezeway apartment complex I guess.
I was hoping the key was to a closet at Highland Junior High where you teach or the storage room at the gym where you coach badminton. Nice job with your coaching 7 wins and two losses. I am proud of you Molly.
I took the key to the Breezeway apartments where he lives. I tried the key in the door. It fits but I didn't go inside. I just had to know. I saw your car there last Friday night at 11;30PM.
The tires on your Honda are getting a little worn. I could take the car into to Smith's Tire and have them rotated. Maybe we could trade cars for one day. You could call me.
It's hard for me to get anything done when I keep looking at my cell phone for a text from you Molly. I am afraid things might have went too far and you will be sending me that text you yelled at me about.
Don't text me good-bye Molly.
love
bob
Don't text me Molly.
I am afraid if you text me, if you put our breakup in writing Molly it will be reality, permanent. I won't read my texts so don't text me Molly.
I am afraid if you text me, if you put our breakup in writing Molly it will be reality, permanent. I won't read my texts so don't text me Molly.
Listen to my voice mail and call me, it's a short voice mail, but please listen to the whole message.
or, come to the house. Our big house with matching themed furniture in every room.
Be mad at me, slap my shoulder, Molly thump my chest with the back of your hand.
Pour my bottle of French Cognac down the drain again. I promise to not drink anymore.
Talk to me Molly, I want to hear your voice. Use your small voice. Tell me how you feel. I need to taste your smell again. Molly nights are interminable, I drink to stay sane. You don't know what it's like to develop impulsive destructive behavior, or maybe you do.
Lock yourself in the bathroom again and cry. Sit on the floor in the lotus position and bang the back of the bathroom door with your fists again. Sleep all night in the car in a snow storm rather than come to our bed.
Please don't text me Goodbye Molly, I don't want to be one of those guys at the gym spending hours and hours doing crunches to get flat abs that no pretty woman wants to look at anyway.
Don't text me Molly,
Don't text me Molly,
Texting is;
stealthfully premeditated, passionless, words over words, impersonal symbols, guileful phases, hidden feelings, logical darts to the heart. No way to talk to a friend.
stealthfully premeditated, passionless, words over words, impersonal symbols, guileful phases, hidden feelings, logical darts to the heart.
Come back to the house Molly. Lets argue. Throw things, put the baseball card collection on the curb again.
Don't text me good-bye Molly,
Call me,
love Bobbie
happy Holidays
PS I joined 24 hour fitness, I have been working out every night about eleven PM on Ninth street in North Canton if you want to stop by.
happy Holidays
PS I joined 24 hour fitness, I have been working out every night about eleven PM on Ninth street in North Canton if you want to stop by.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
we all have our fears
we all have our fears
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit/ repost
fraternal twins
Dad had died and Myron, my fraternal twin was in the army and I went to college about four hundred miles away. That's when Mom must have had the bomb shelter built. It was under the house and the only entrance was through the glass garden niche. We called it the niche because Myron and me use to play and play in there when we were children. The back wall of the garden niche was brick and I was tearing it down last month when I found the hidden door leading to the bomb shelter under the house. The rest of the garden niche was glass and Mom spent a lot of time back there when we were kids working on her flowers.
I was tearing down the old garden building when I found the underground passage to the bomb shelter, a large room down under the large house we grew up in. The only entrance was through the green house which is what the glass garden niche really was.
I had called Myron my Brother to get permission to tear down the green house last month because he is half owner of the house that I have lived in since Mom died five years ago. We are selling the family home. After I graduated from college with my degree I moved back home. I never knew about the bomb shelter and Mom never once mentioned it. I lived in the house for six years with my Mother after she must have had that bomb shelter built; and she never mentioned the bomb shelter to me even once.
The green house was airy and bright when we were kids and Myron and I loved to play in it. That's why I called Myron for permission to tear it down, it was our niche, as we called it, our special place.
Myron isn't upset with Mom for not telling us. I am. Myron was her only son, me her only daughter. What would possess a woman to build an expensive brick and cement room under the house she lived in for twenty six years and not tell any one at all about it? I have asked all my relatives in the last month since I found the entrance to the bomb shelter under the house; and no one knew about it. Mom never mentioned it.
The bomb shelter is too big and elaborate for a bomb shelter and who needs a bomb shelter now a days anyway? It's a throw back to fears and secrecy of the 1950's in America when my parents were born.
I am trying to sell the old house that Myron my fraternal twin and I grew up in, so we can split the money and now I find out that it has a bomb shelter under it that my Mother had built that she never told anyone about. The only entrance to the dark bomb shelter is through the glass green house my brother and I loved to play in when we were kids. I don't under stand my Mother. I feel like she concealed something from me. Myron tells me to let it be.
Myron says we all have our fears and I don't know what it like to lose a spouse. It must have triggered something in our Mother that caused her to need a place where she could be safe and secure from the world at large says Myron.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit/ repost
fraternal twins
Dad had died and Myron, my fraternal twin was in the army and I went to college about four hundred miles away. That's when Mom must have had the bomb shelter built. It was under the house and the only entrance was through the glass garden niche. We called it the niche because Myron and me use to play and play in there when we were children. The back wall of the garden niche was brick and I was tearing it down last month when I found the hidden door leading to the bomb shelter under the house. The rest of the garden niche was glass and Mom spent a lot of time back there when we were kids working on her flowers.
I was tearing down the old garden building when I found the underground passage to the bomb shelter, a large room down under the large house we grew up in. The only entrance was through the green house which is what the glass garden niche really was.
I had called Myron my Brother to get permission to tear down the green house last month because he is half owner of the house that I have lived in since Mom died five years ago. We are selling the family home. After I graduated from college with my degree I moved back home. I never knew about the bomb shelter and Mom never once mentioned it. I lived in the house for six years with my Mother after she must have had that bomb shelter built; and she never mentioned the bomb shelter to me even once.
The green house was airy and bright when we were kids and Myron and I loved to play in it. That's why I called Myron for permission to tear it down, it was our niche, as we called it, our special place.
Myron isn't upset with Mom for not telling us. I am. Myron was her only son, me her only daughter. What would possess a woman to build an expensive brick and cement room under the house she lived in for twenty six years and not tell any one at all about it? I have asked all my relatives in the last month since I found the entrance to the bomb shelter under the house; and no one knew about it. Mom never mentioned it.
The bomb shelter is too big and elaborate for a bomb shelter and who needs a bomb shelter now a days anyway? It's a throw back to fears and secrecy of the 1950's in America when my parents were born.
I am trying to sell the old house that Myron my fraternal twin and I grew up in, so we can split the money and now I find out that it has a bomb shelter under it that my Mother had built that she never told anyone about. The only entrance to the dark bomb shelter is through the glass green house my brother and I loved to play in when we were kids. I don't under stand my Mother. I feel like she concealed something from me. Myron tells me to let it be.
Myron says we all have our fears and I don't know what it like to lose a spouse. It must have triggered something in our Mother that caused her to need a place where she could be safe and secure from the world at large says Myron.
Friday, December 6, 2013
more sexist literature
more sexist literature
for my critic
rated "R" for mature audiences
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
repost/ edit 2
three ladies with no tulley
Steamy and clammy down at the beach it was. Today the first day of fishing season begins at midnight. My girl Martinique called me wanting my special attention. Martinique being slightly peculiar because of the tides, phases of the Moon, and her feeling rather lonely tonight.
Heavens no, Martinique my girl, I replied, its the first night of fishing season; tonight the Tulley's run. I'll take my dingy to Swenson's marina and buy bait and Old Baily and drink and fish all night with me mates. In the morning I will bring you fresh Tulley enough for three days, no woman could ask her mate for more.
No, no shouted Martinique into the phone. I'll call Randy O'Sullivan or Barney Crayford. I need you tonight. Come timely to me. Stand firm and do your duty my man.
Laugh did I. See you in the morning I exclaimed. All the men of the village will be at sea tonight. The Tulley's will run. The wait will be good for you, old horse. I'll see you in the morning. I'll take no such order from my woman.
About two AM on a dark and stormy sea, instigator Barney Crayford rowed along side my boat where I fished alone. Barney says for all to hear, Barney says he sees Martinique over at Shatterstown tavern at ten PM sizing up the college boys down from New Jersey. Barney next says, then at 11:30 my Martinique is over at Busby's drinking double banana shooters with two sorority girls, philosophy majors both, from Connecticut. Later Barney tells, he saw Martinique with those two lasses walking arm in arm up toward the hotel district. Martinique in a hotel with two sorority girls?
I beat it up and down the coast, looking for my Martinique. From North Beach I searched to Atlantic City and then South to Ocean side looking for my girl. But there is no Martinique to be found.
Imagine, what could three ladies in a hotel room do at the shore with no Tulley for the night?
for my critic
rated "R" for mature audiences
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
repost/ edit 2
three ladies with no tulley
Steamy and clammy down at the beach it was. Today the first day of fishing season begins at midnight. My girl Martinique called me wanting my special attention. Martinique being slightly peculiar because of the tides, phases of the Moon, and her feeling rather lonely tonight.
Heavens no, Martinique my girl, I replied, its the first night of fishing season; tonight the Tulley's run. I'll take my dingy to Swenson's marina and buy bait and Old Baily and drink and fish all night with me mates. In the morning I will bring you fresh Tulley enough for three days, no woman could ask her mate for more.
No, no shouted Martinique into the phone. I'll call Randy O'Sullivan or Barney Crayford. I need you tonight. Come timely to me. Stand firm and do your duty my man.
Laugh did I. See you in the morning I exclaimed. All the men of the village will be at sea tonight. The Tulley's will run. The wait will be good for you, old horse. I'll see you in the morning. I'll take no such order from my woman.
About two AM on a dark and stormy sea, instigator Barney Crayford rowed along side my boat where I fished alone. Barney says for all to hear, Barney says he sees Martinique over at Shatterstown tavern at ten PM sizing up the college boys down from New Jersey. Barney next says, then at 11:30 my Martinique is over at Busby's drinking double banana shooters with two sorority girls, philosophy majors both, from Connecticut. Later Barney tells, he saw Martinique with those two lasses walking arm in arm up toward the hotel district. Martinique in a hotel with two sorority girls?
I beat it up and down the coast, looking for my Martinique. From North Beach I searched to Atlantic City and then South to Ocean side looking for my girl. But there is no Martinique to be found.
Imagine, what could three ladies in a hotel room do at the shore with no Tulley for the night?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)